THE  VANISHING 
'•  SMUGGLER  - 

STEPHEN  CHALMERS 


36  9  D 


THE    VANISHING    SMUGGLER 


The  firelight  danced  mockingly  on  the  faces  of 
the  three  men 

Frontispiece 


The 

Vanishing  Smuggler 


BY 

STEPHEN    CHALMERS 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  NESBITT  BENSON 


New  York 

Edward  J.  Clode 

Publisher 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
EDWARD  J.  CLODE 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  GENESIS  OF  "  SMUGGLE-ERIE  "       .  1 

II.  THE  THISTLE  DOWN  COMES  TO  PORT   .  17 

III.  THE    VANISHING    SMUGGLER    ...  30 

IV.  GRANT'S  CONFESSION         ...  47 
V.  WHIRLED  INTO  THE  UNKNOWN       .  64 

VI.  A  MAN'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT          »        .  72 

VII.  STILL  WATERS  RUN  DEEP        ...  85 

VIII.  THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  HARVEST-HOME        .  100 

IX.  LOVE  OR  DUTY? 113 

X.  THE  COUNCIL  IN  THE  CAVE   .        .        .  126 

XI.  SMUGGLE-ERIE  FALLS  FROM  GRACE          .  134 

XII.  A   THOROUGH    UNDERSTANDING        .        .  145 

XIII.  GROGBLOSSOM'S  DISCOVERY        .        .        .  154 

XIV.  STAND  BY  TO  Go  ABOUT  .        .        .168 
XV.  THE  MADNESS  OF  BEN  LARKIN        .        .179 

XVI.  QUEER    DOINGS           .        .         .     ...  191 

XVII.  "  BARREL — BARREL — WHO'S     GOT     THE 

BARREL?  " 201 

XVIII.  A  SENSATION  IN  MORAG  ....  213 

XIX.  GRIZEL  TO  THE  RESCUE     ....  225 

XX.  EXODUS         .        .        .        .        .        .        .  238 

XXI.  "  IN  CONCLUSION,  GENTLEMEN  "    ,        .  250 


2134S67 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

The    firelight    danced    mockingly    on    the 

faces   of  the  three  men Frontispiece 

"  Lad,  how  would  you  like  to  be  a  real 

smuggler? " Page     15 

The  coast-guard  men  and  the  cutter  mould 

patrol  the  Firth  from  dusk 139 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  hers  and  held  out 

his   hand    .  " 


THE  VANISHING  SMUGGLER 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    GENESIS    OF    "  SMUGGLE-ERIE  " 

THE  winter  moon,  glowing  like  a  tearful  eye 
through  the  fog,  revealed  only  a  few  of  the 
scattered  houses  that  stood  for  the  Scotch 
village  of  Morag.  In  the  dense  mist  the  walls  rose 
in  the  hoar-silvered  light  like  circular  piles  of  Druidic 
ruins. 

The  great  estuary  of  the  Clyde  lay  like  dull  metal 
under  the  moon  halo,  and  the  ripples  sucked  under 
a  fringing  of  ice,  for  so  intense  was  the  frost  that 
the  Arctic  finger  encroached  upon  the  salt  sea. 

It  was  midnight,  yet  the  hour  seemed  full  of 
whisperings.  The  bellowing  of  the  foghorn  on  the 
Renfrewshire  coast  opposite,  and  the  melancholy 
clang  of  the  Gantock  bell  on  the  midreef,  sounded  a 
strange  presage  of  evil. 

In  the  coast-guard  station,  on  the  barren  rocks  at 
the  north  end  of  Morag  Bay,  old  Jack  Cookson 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

turned  uneasily  on  his  bed.  Every  now  and  then  he 
got  up,  pulled  aside  the  curtain  of  the  little  window 
overlooking  the  bay,  and  peered  through  the  moonlit 
fog.  Once  he  grunted  decisively;  put  on  his  big, 
blue  reefer  coat;  jammed  his  sugarloaf  hat  on  his 
head;  stuck  an  ancient  telescope  under  the  flipper 
of  the  arm  that  was  shot  off  at  Trafalgar,  and 
stamped  away  into  the  night,  with  a  great  snorting 
and  blowing.  But  although  he  paraded  the  whole 
sweep  of  the  bay,  he  noted  neither  sight  nor  sound 
that  aroused  his  suspicion. 

So  the  coast-guard  went  back  to  the  station ;  care- 
fully wiped  the  hoar  off  the  venerable  telescope ;  hung 
it  on  a  rack  by  the  side  of  his  bunk,  and  presently, 
with  many  a  snort,  he  resumed  his  uneasy  slumbers. 

He  was  not  the  only  restless  sleeper  that  night. 
In  the  garret  of  Giles  Scrymegeour's  house  in  the 
center  of  the  village,  there  was  a  little  fellow  with  a 
toothache.  He  was  eight  years  of  age. 

This  was  in  the  year  1815,  but  there  was  some- 
thing about  that  toothache  which  caused  him  to 
remember  it  through  many  a  later  year.  As  he  lay 
on  his  bed  of  old  meal-bags — for  Giles  Scrymegeour, 
his  guardian,  was  a  mean  man — he  somehow  associated 
the  foghorn  and  the  Gantock  bell  and  the  smell  of 
the  meal-bags  with  his  own  misery. 

He  did  not  cry.  Little  Dick  Scrymegeour  was  not 
of  that  sort.  His  experience  was  that  crying  profited 
[2] 


The  Genesis  of  "  Smuggle-erie  " 

nothing.  He  never  got  anything  when  he  cried — 
anything  he  wanted.  Old  Giles  would  scold  him  and 
send  him  to  his  garret,  with  a  half-slice  of  dry  bread 
and  a  "  tinny  "  of  water,  after  repeating  for  the 
thousandth  time  how  he  had  taken  the  lad  out  of 
the  poorhouse,  where  they  got  skilly  and  water  and 
dry  bread,  even  on  feast-days. 

Little  Dick  did  not  remember  his  poorhouse  days, 
nor  his  parents,  whom  the  miser  had  ruined  in  some 
way  or  other;  but  sometimes,  when  he  was  not  too 
hungry,  he  would  take  his  "  tinny  "  of  water  and  bit 
of  bread,  and  go  sullenly  to  his  garret.  Once  there, 
he  would  bar  the  door,  and  feed  the  bread  to  the  mice, 
the  while  swearing  in  his  little  pagan  heart  that  when 
he  was  strong  enough  he  would  take  Giles  Scryme- 
geour — Old  Scryme,  they  called  him — and  slowly  and 
deliberately  strangle  him  with  his  hands. 

WJilng!  went  a  shaft  of  toothache  through  his  face 
as  he  rehearsed  how  he  would  commit  the  murder. 
He  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  up  at  the  slanting 
roof  of  the  garret,  as  one  will  do  in  the  night  of  pain. 
The  dark  seemed  full  of  red  spots  and  fiery  tadpoles. 
Whing!  A  groan  fairly  burst  from  the  little  stoic's 
lips.  He  rose  and  felt  in  the  dark  for  his  kilt,  for 
he  slept  in  his  only  other  garment.  He  dressed  in 
the  dark,  Giles  having  taken  away  the  candle.  The 
boy  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  and  wake  up  the 
dominie,  a  kind  old  man — the  father  of  the  village — 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

doctor,  dentist,  magistrate,  and  scholar — and  ask  him 
to  pull  the  tooth.  It  was  quite  a  brave  thing  for  a 
lad  of  eight  to  contemplate,  but — whing! — little 
Dick  had  learned  independence  of  action  in  the  bitter 
school  of  an  orphan's  experience. 

When  he  was  fully  dressed,  except  for  his  shoes — 
if  they  can  be  called  garments — he  took  these  in  his 
left  hand,  quietly  undid  the  latch,  and  crept  down 
the  rickety  wooden  stairs  to  the  back  door.  One 
of  these  days,  the  waif  reflected,  he  would  prowl  down- 
stairs just  like  this,  when  he  went  to  murder  old 
Giles.  But  that  time  was  not  yet. 

He  had  just  opened  the  back  door  when  he  stopped 
with  a  great  thump  of  his  heart.  Something  was 
wrong  here.  The  door  had  not  even  been  on  the 
latch — a  thing  quite  incredible  in  the  house  of  the 
miser,  Giles  Scrymegeour.  Filled  with  the  sudden 
fear  of  a  specter  at  his  elbow,  the  boy  slowly  turned 
his  head.  There  was  nothing  there  but  another  door, 
which  led  into  Giles's  shop.  Here  the  miser  kept 
his  stock  of  cheeses  and  cloths,  and  the  old  iron  box 
which  was  said  to  be  full  of  deeds  and  mortgages  and 
similar  weapons  for  wringing  the  hearts  and  pockets 
of  his  neighbors. 

What  stirred  the  boy  to  wild  curiosity  was  a  ray 

of  candle-light,  shining  through  the  keyhole;   and 

also  he  heard  voices  on  the  other  side  of  the  shop 

door.     His  guardian — Uncle  Giles,  as  he  was  taught 

[4] 


The  Genesis  of  "  Smuggle-erie" 

to  call  him — should,  by  all  custom,  be  asleep  at  this 
hour;  and,  even  if  Dick  had  not  heard  the  voices, 
he  was  sure  that  Old  Scryme  would  never  waste  a 
candle  in  this  fashion.  He  would  rather  sit  in  the 
dark. 

In  another  moment  the  eye  of  the  little  pagan 
was  at  the  keyhole,  and  in  the  same  instant  his  tooth- 
ache was  gone — quite  gone.  In  after  years  the  mere 
memory  of  that  night  was  enough  to  cure  him  of 
the  worst  toothache.  On  the  iron  box — this  is  what 
he  saw ! — was  a  lighted  candle  stuck  in  an  empty 
bottle.  The  glow  from  the  flame  fell  upon  a  pile  of 
golden  guineas,  and  lit  up  the  claw  hands  of  his 
Uncle  Giles  as  he  counted  the  money  into  several 
smaller  piles.  And  the  same  glow  cast  queer  shadows 
on  the  faces  of  several  rough  sailormen,  who  stood 
round  the  box  and  the  candle  and  the  gold,  and 
glared  down  upon  every  movement  of  the  miser's 
claw  hands  with  suspicion  and  avarice. 

One  of  the  group,  a  great,  bearded,  broad-shoul- 
dered giant,  whose  face  was  of  nobler  cast  than  the 
others,  suddenly  stuck  out  his  long  arms  and,  like 
a  watchman  forcing  a  crowd  with  a  staff,  pushed  the 
men  back  with  a  growl. 

The  little  eavesdropper's  ear  relieved  his  eye  at 
the  keyhole. 

" — like  a  pack  of  carrion  crows,"  he  heard  the  big 
man  say.  "  Ye'll  get  your  deserts  by  and  by. 

[5] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

Dinna  be  in  a  hurry.  Better  men  than  you  have 
got  more  than  they  bargained  for  by  being  in  ower 
great  a  hurry." 

The  others  obeyed  him  as  if  he  were  the  acknowl- 
edged master.  And  this  was  what  set  the  boy  at 
the  keyhole  thinking.  He  knew  the  man.  There  was 
none  in  Morag  but  would  have  known  him — a  pillar 
of  the  kirk — a  leading  man  of  the  burgh.  What 
was  he  doing  here,  in  the  company  of  three  others 
whose  names  were  a  byword  for  poaching  and 
smuggling?  Most  of  all,  what  was  he  doing  at 
dead  of  night  in  the  disreputable  shop  of  Giles 
Scrymegeour,  the  miser,  a  man  whom  this  same 
pillar  of  respectability  had  more  than  once  de- 
nounced as  a  public  menace?  And  counting 
golden  guineas?  The  little  pagan  glued  his  ear  to 
the  keyhole. 

"  Sixty-four  guineas  an'  not  a  bawbee  less ! "  one 
of  the  men  was  saying. 

"  But  the  risk's  mine ! "  whined  Old  Scryme. 
"  Think  o't,  man,  and,  forbye,  I  havena  seen  the 
stuff." 

"  Risk ! "  snapped  the  bearded  giant.  "  Who 
speaks  o'  risk?  Take  it,  or  leave  it,  Giles  Scryme- 
geour. My  work's  done.  The  stuff  is  where  you 
know  how  to  dispose  of  it.  Enough  of  this  gabbling. 
Pay!  " 

The  leader  rapped  his  knuckles  on  the  box  in  a 
[6] 


The  Genesis  of  ee  Smuggle-erie" 

way  that  sent  Old  Scryme's  claws  to  rattling  the 
guineas  like  metal  castanets. 

The  boy's  heart  beat  wildly.  He  crouched  on 
his  knees,  leaning  his  face  against  the  door,  loath 
to  miss  a  word. 

Strangely  and  evilly  informed  for  his  years,  he 
knew  what  was  going  on  before  him.  So  Uncle  Giles 
was  a  smuggler — worse  than  a  smuggler — the  man 
who  played  the  fiddle  when  the  smugglers  danced ! 
The  boy's  soul  soared  with  delight.  He  had  a  vision 
of  his  guardian's  face  next  time  he  offered  him  dry 
bread  and  water  for  supper.  He  would  ask  him 
when  he  expected  another  midnight  visit  from 
Heather  Bloom,  the  notorious  smuggler! 

But  to  think  that  Heather  Bloom  was — why,  it 
was  incredible !  It  had  been  whispered  of  the  others ; 
in  fact,  there  was  hardly  a  full-grown  man  in  Morag 
who  could  plead  not  guilty  to  a  charge  of  smuggling ; 
but  to  think  that  Heather  Bloom — fearless  Heather 
Bloom — whom  old  Jack  Cookson  and  Collector  Hor- 
neycraft  would  have  sold  their  honor  to  identify, 
was  none  other  than 

The  boy's  legs,  cramped  up  under  him  on  the  floor, 
suddenly  slid  outward  and  he  crashed  against  the 
door.  At  the  same  moment  the  light  in  the  keyhole 
went  out  and  there  came  a  sudden  jangle  of  money, 
then  a  momentary  silence,  broken  at  length  by  a  fear- 
stricken  whisper  inside  the  room: 

[7] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Did  ye  hear't?  Guid  forgie  us,  there's  a  revenue 
spy  ahint  the  door!" 

"  Quiet !  "  came  a  tense  whisper.  "  If  that  man 
escapes,  we're  all  in  jail." 

The  boy  on  the  other  side  of  the  door  had  been 
petrified  with  fright  for  a  moment,  but  at  the  first 
whispering  his  wits  returned.  He  silently  picked 
up  his  shoes  and  crept  to  the  back  door,  which  was 
still  open  to  the  misty  moonlight. 

Then,  with  a  yell  of  excitement  and  defiance,  he 
darted  away,  heedless  of  the  sharp,  icy  stones  that 
stabbed  the  soles  of  his  feet.  The  moment  the  yell 
sounded,  the  smugglers,  all  except  Giles  Scrymegeour, 
— who  crammed  the  gold  into  the  iron  box  and  then 
sat  down,  wringing  his  hands  and  whining, — dashed 
out  of  the  miser's  house  and  after  the  retreating 
figure,  which  loomed  large  and  manlike  in  the  fog. 
Once  the  leader  of  the  smugglers  stopped,  put  his 
fingers  to  his  mouth,  and  whistled  in  a  peculiar  way. 
Then  the  chase  began  in  silent  earnest. 

The  fog  was  thicker  than  ever,  and  to  the  lad's 
imagination  the  horn-bellowing  seemed  louder  and  the 
Gantock  bell-clang  more  menacing.  He  could  hardly 
see  ten  yards  before  him,  but  he  knew  every  stick 
and  stone  in  Morag,  and  within  five  miles  of  it. 
Otherwise  he  would  have  been  overtaken,  or  trapped, 
before  he  had  gone  two  hundred  yards ;  for  he  pres- 
ently became  aware  that  he  was  being  pursued,  not 

[8] 


The  Genesis  of  "  Smuggle-erie  " 

only  by  the  four  smugglers  he  had  seen  in  Uncle 
Giles's  shop,  but  by  others  who  began  to  appear 
mysteriously  from  different  directions. 

The  blood  coursed  in  his  veins  faster  and  hotter. 
In  spite  of  his  physical  fear,  this  was  a  game  he 
liked  and  of  which,  in  the  child-play  sense,  he  was 
a  master.  It  was  the  great  and  glorious  game  of 
"  smuggle-erie,"  and  among  the  children  of  Morag 
this  same  lad  Dick  was  known  as  "  Smuggle-erie." 
Swift  of  foot,  alert  of  eye,  and  cunning  of  mind, 
there  was  not  a  hiding-place  in  the  village  that  he 
did  not  know,  and  there  was  many  a  refuge  of  which 
the  other  boys  did  not  dream,  when  little  Dick  was 
the  "  smuggler  "  to  be  caught. 

As  he  ran,  he  laughed  to  think  how  he  could  outwit 
these  clumsy-footed  grown-ups.  Several  times  voices 
behind  him  cried  to  voices  in  the  fog  before  him,  and 
thrice  he  narrowly  escaped  plunging  into  the  arms  of 
a  figure  that  would  suddenly  loom  out  of  the  mist; 
but  ever  the  supple  ankle  and  swift  foot  carried  him 
like  a  deer  from  danger. 

Once,  when  they  had  closed  in  all  around  him,  he 
stood  perfectly  still.  Two  smugglers  ran  out  and 
grappled  with  one  another  in  the  fog.  He  dashed 
past  them  and,  slipping  behind  a  rock,  yelled  at 
the  top  of  his  lungs  that  glorious  whoop  of  the 
game: 

"  Smuggle-erie  I  " 

[9] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

But  that  was  the  only  sound.  The  old  coast- 
guard may  have  heard  it,  or  only  thought  he  heard 
it,  and  turned  over  to  dream  once  more  of  the  battle 
of  Trafalgar.  The  smugglers  themselves  pursued 
their  quarry  with  never  a  sound,  save  a  quiet  call 
or  a  whistle  and,  once,  a  sharp  curse  of  alarm  when 
the  boy  shouted  the  guilty  word. 

Aye!  it  was  a  game  of  smuggle-erie — the  real 
game;  and  Dick  Scrymegeour  reveled  in  it.  He 
was  no  longer  afraid  of  the  smugglers.  They  were 
playfellows,  to  his  boy  mind.  He  had  never  a 
thought  of  physical  violence  now.  It  was  his  cun- 
ning against  theirs  in  the  game  of  all  games  that 
he  loved  the  most. 

But  in  a  little  while  his  breath  came  quick  and 
short ;  there  was  a  sharp,  continuous  pain  in  his  side. 
Smuggle-erie  was  glad  when  he  found  a  hiding-place 
where  he  could  remain  in  safety  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  he  grew  chary  of  uttering  the  cry  that  kept  the 
pot  boiling  and  told  his  enemies  of  his  whereabouts. 
But  the  smugglers  were  relentless.  The  safety  of 
every  man  of  them  hung  by  the  capture  of  that  eaves- 
dropper, who  darted  hither  and  thither  with  a  shout 
which,  to  their  understanding,  meant  only  a  warning 
to  the  coast-guard.  The  smugglers  spread  like 
game-beaters,  and  advanced  in  a  broadside  line, 
stealthily  peering  into  the  doorways  of  the  cottages, 
behind  rocks  and  under  the  overturned  boats  on  the 
[10] 


The  Genesis  of  "Smuggle-erie" 

beach.  Morag  slept  through  it  all,  or,  if  awake, 
it  was  peculiarly  deaf. 

The  chase  had  been  in  full  cry  for  fifteen  minutes 
when  Smuggle-erie  cast  around  in  his  mind  for  a 
supreme  trick  that  would  end  the  game  and  allow 
him  a  clear  course  to  the  back  door  of  Giles  Scryme- 
geour's  house.  Between  him  and  his  garret  was  the 
line  of  smugglers,  and  by  this  time  he  had  been 
forced  almost  to  the  south  end  of  the  village.  Be- 
yond there  was  nothing  but  the  bleak,  frozen  hills — 
a  dire  place  for  a  night's  lodging — and  the  fir  woods 
surrounding  the  laird's  castle. 

Then  a  refuge  occurred  to  the  boy's  mind — a 
hiding-place,  the  very  nature  of  which  sent  a  chill 
through  his  blood.  A  few  hundred  yards  beyond 
the  southern  extremity  of  the  village,  and  by  the  gate 
entering  the  laird's  estate,  was  an  old  gardener's 
lodge,  which  had  stood  tenantless  for  as  long  as 
Smuggle-erie  could  remember.  The  place  was  re- 
puted a  haunt  of  ghosts. 

Smuggle-erie  was  running  toward  this  sinister 
place  before  he  fully  realized  what  chances  he  was 
taking  with  the  supernatural.  Once  a  great  black 
bull  had  swum  in  from  the  sea  to  the  Bull  Rock, 
a  headland  fronting  the  lodge  on  the  sea  side,  and 
had  drowned  because  it  could  not  scramble  up  the 
slippery  sides  of  the  massive  bowlder.  Ever  since 
then,  legend  had  a  picturesque  description  of  a  gigan- 
[11] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

tic  black  bull,  which  was  to  be  seen  o'  nights  round 
the  rock  and  the  lodge  and  the  fir  plantation,  charg- 
ing about  with  fiery  eyes  and  flaming  nostrils. 

Many  a  time  the  unkempt  ward  of  the  miser  had 
challenged  his  boy  companions  to  visit  the  lodge  by 
night,  but,  somehow,  the  daring  had  never  become 
a  deed.  Now,  Smuggle-erie  was  about  to  make  a 
virtue  of  a  necessity,  but,  as  he  strove  to  assure 
himself,  he  had  never  believed  in  ghosts,  anyway. 

He  had  little  time  in  which  to  choose,  at  the  best 
of  it.  His  sole  chance  of  winning  the  game  of 
smuggle-erie  lay  in  reaching  that  haunted  lodge. 
He  never  supposed  for  a  moment  that  any  of  his 
pursuers  would  enter  the  place — so  great,  indeed,  was 
the  local  terror  of  the  black  bull.  But  they  were 
close  behind  him.  They  had  run  straight  upon  his 
heels  from  the  last  point  where  he  emerged  to  view. 

Again  the  peculiar  whistle  sounded.  It  sent  an 
uneasy  pang  through  the  boy's  heart,  but  it  was  too 
late  now  to  choose  any  other  course.  His  feet  were 
bruised  and  half  frozen  by  the  stones,  and  the  thumb 
and  finger  which  gripped  his  shoes  were  painfully 
cramped.  By  the  time  he  reached  the  lodge,  he 
was  too  glad  to  have  arrived  to  care  anything  about 
ghosts.  But  no  sooner  had  he  sprung  into  the 
haunted  place  than  his  heart  gave  a  great  leap,  then 
stopped  as  if  frozen. 

He  could  see  nothing  but  a  dazzling  glare  of  light, 
[12] 


The  Genesis  of  "  Smuggle-erie  " 

as  he  came  to  an  astonished  halt  in  the  middle  of 
the  damp,  rotten  floor. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  he  had  come  face  to 
face  with  the  bull,  but  as  his  eyes  became  used  to 
the  glare,  he  discovered  that  it  came  from  a  lamp  in 
the  hand  of  a  man ;  and  there  were  a  dozen  other 
men  in  the  place,  besides  a  fine  array  of  bales,  barrels, 
and  miscellaneous  merchandise,  piled  on  the  floor. 

"  Hey !  "  ej  aculated  the  man  who  held  the  lamp. 
"What's  this?" 

The  man  was  too  astonished  to  lay  hands  upon 
Smuggle-erie,  even.  The  lad  stood  there,  blinking 
and  panting  and  grinning,  and  wondering  why  they 
all  looked  so  startled —  so  frightened !  Then  the 
night  was  filled  with  a  rushing  of  feet.  Next  mo- 
ment Heather  Bloom  and  half  a  dozen  men  dashed 
into  the  lodge  and  slammed  the  door  tight  after 
them. 

"Have  ye  got  him?"  Heather  Bloom  asked 
sharply. 

"  N-na ! "  stammered  the  man  with  the  lamp. 
"  But  there's  a  lad — Scrymegeour's  lad — tumbled  in 
here  like  a  shot." 

Then  there  was  silence.  Heather  Bloom,  at  first 
amazed,  then  suspicious,  then  with  a  slow-dawning 
sense  of  the  ridiculous,  gazed  upon  the  boy  who  had 
put  the  fear  of  death  into  the  hearts  of  a  score  of 
smugglers.  And  Smuggle-erie,  himself,  gazed  upon 
[13] 


Lad,  how  would  you  like  to  be  a  real  smuggler  ?" 

Page  15 


The  Genesis  of  ff  Smuggle-erie" 

The  boy  lifted  his  eyes  and  fixed  them  savagely 
upon  his  guardian's  face.  There  was  something  in 
them  that  made  Old  Scryme  turn  pale. 

"  Was't  him  ?  "  he  whispered. 

"  Aye— him !  "  said  Heather  Bloom.  "  What's  to 
be  done  with  the  lad?  He  kens  enough  to  wring 
your  neck,  Master  Giles  Scrymegeour." 

The  miser's  face  screwed  up  into  evil  wrinkles, 
and  his  eyes  danced  furtively.  He  suddenly  turned 
to  the  men  and  spoke  as  if  to  excuse  his  sug- 
gestion. 

"  If  he  goes  back  to  Morag,  there's  no  one  o'  us  '11 
be  oot  o'  j  ail  in  a  week !  "  he  cried.  "  It's  a  desp'rit 
sittyation — a  desp'rit  sittyation !  " 

"  Maybe,"  said  the  leader  quietly,  "  ye  would  have 
no  objection,  Giles,  if  we  tied  a  stone  to  the  brat's 
feet  and  dropped  him  ower  the  Bull  Rock  ?  " 

"  It  might  be  for  the  best,"  muttered  the  miser, 
turning  up  the  whites  of  his  eyes.  "  It's  a  very 
desp'rit  sittyation !  " 

Heather  Bloom  threw  his  hands  in  the  air  with 
an  expression  of  disgust. 

"  Grogblossom,"  he  said  to  a  smuggler  with  a  fat, 
pig-like  face,  "  take  this  lad  aboard  the  schooner 
and,  as  ye  value  your  neck,  keep  him  safe.  "  Lad, 
he  added,  turning  to  the  boy,  "  how  would  ye  like 
to  be  a  real  smuggler  ?  " 

And  the  boy,  boy-like,  replied: 
[15] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"Fine,  sir!" 

"  Very  well,"  said  Heather  Bloom.  With  a  con- 
temptuous glance  at  Giles  Scrymegeour,  he  added: 
"  It's  a  blessing  for  us  and  a  pity  for  the  lad  that 
there's  none  to  say  no  to  it." 


[16] 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  THISTLE   DOWN   COMES   TO   PORT 

TWELVE  years  later  the  little  signal  cannon  in 
the  Thistle  Down's  bows  boomed  through  the  late 
dusk,  and  the  schooner's  anchor  splashed  merrily  into 
the  waters  of  Morag  Bay. 

"  Well,  well ! "  cried  Grogblossom,  the  fat  cook, 
wiping  his  red,  pig  face  as  he  stepped  out  of  the 
galley.  "  Here  we  are,  lads,  an'  bless't  if  the  auld 
toon's  no  in  the  same  place.  Noo,  Red  Heid,"  he 
added,  waddling  toward  a  short  fiery-haired  man 
who  leaned  by  the  gunwale,  "  will  ye  promise  to  get 
yer  hair  cut  afore  we  put  to  sea  ag'in?  " 

"  Lemme  hair  alone ! "  growled  the  Red  Mole. 
"  It's  nae  worse  than  your  face." 

"  Hoot,  toot !  "  protested  Grogblossom.  "  It's  the 
galley  fire,  man — the  galley  fire.  Well,  well!  An' 
there's  auld  Morag,  as  fine  a  sight  for  sore  eyes  as 
ye'd  want  after  a'  they  French  frog-stools.  It's  a 
sayin',  ye  ken,  that  a'  things  change,  but  the  Bible 
must  ha'  meant  everything  excep'  Morag.  Losh, 
man,  I'll  swear  there's  no  been  a  hoose  built  in 
my  time." 

[17] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

The  Red  Mole  turned  away  and  looked  impatiently 
up  and  down  the  deck.  He  seemed  assured,  presently, 
by  the  calm  poise  of  Captain  Grant,  as  the  com- 
mander stood  by  the  wheel  and  waved  a  hand  to  some- 
one in  an  approaching  boat. 

"  The  whole  pack  o'  them  '11  be  aboard  in  a 
minute,"  said  the  Red  Mole  to  Grogblossom.  "  Man, 
I've  been  through  this  thing  a  score  o'  times,  an' 
I'm  still  fear't." 

"Hoot,  toot!"  said  Grogblossom.  "  Ye'd  think 
a  man  wi'  a  heid  like  yours  would  no  be  afeared  o' 
anything.  But  I  was  thinkin'  there's  been  changes 
in  Morag,  after  a'.  There's  a  few  mair  bairns  an' 
a  few  mair  graves  in  the  kirkyard.  An' — there 
comes  the  lass,  Red  Mole!  See  her  comin'  off  in 
the  boat  yonder  wi'  the  dominie.  Hech,  sir!  I 
mind  the  night  her  mother  dee'd — same  night  we 
brung  Smuggle-erie  aboard.  Puir  Mistress  Grant ! 
Aye,  aye.  Change  an'  decay — change  an'  decay, 
even  in  Morag !  " 

"  It's  him  I'm  feared  o',"  growled  the  Red  Mole ; 
"  aye,  ever  since  that  very  night." 

"  Who?  "  asked  the  cook,  waking  up  from  his 
mournful  thoughts. 

"  The  skipper,"  was  the  reply.     "  It's  my  opeenion 

he'll  take  to  releegion  afore  long,  he's  that  fu'  o' 

auld    wives'    warnin's.     It    makes    an    or'nar'    man 

nervous.     He's  goin'  doon  the  hill,  Grogblossom — 

[18] 


The  Thistle  Down  Comes  to  Port 

doon  the  hill.  If  it  was  no  for  Smuggle-erie,  there'd 
never  be  a  drop  run  through." 

"  Doon  the  hill — aye,  aye !  "  sighed  Grogblossom. 
"  No  wunncr.  The  man's  got  a  conscience,  like 
mysel'.  It  was  his  evil  transgressions  that  sent 
her  gray  hairs  in  sorrer  to  the  grave." 

"  She  hadna  gray  hairs,"  protested  the  Red  Mole 
stolidly. 

"  Na  ?  "  murmured  Grogblossom.  "  Maybe  she 
had  a  red  heid.  Well,  here's  the  rev'nue  boat.  I'm 
off !  An'  here's  luck  to  Smuggle-erie ! "  He  wad- 
dled back  into  the  galley,  but  gave  the  Red  Mole  a 
shock  by  turning  and  saying  deliberately :  "  I  wunner 
if  it's  true  that  a  body's  hair  grows  in  the  coffin 
after " 

"  Shut  up !  "  growled  the  Red  Mole,  turning  away, 
much  perturbed. 

Captain  Grant,  in  the  meantime,  stood  awaiting 
the  revenue  boat,  which  shot  out  from  the  coast- 
guard station  with  old  Jack  Cookson  aboard;  also 
Mr.  Horneycraft,  collector  of  revenue,  and  Lieuten- 
ant Ben  Larkin,  a  young  naval  officer  recently  ap- 
pointed to  the  coast-guard  service  in  a  determined 
effort  to  suppress  smuggling.  The  nefarious  trade 
had  been  growing  to  an  alarming  extent  along  the 
west  coast  of  Scotland,  and  particularly  in  the 
vicinity  of  Morag. 

Indeed,  the  daring  with  which  contraband  was 
[19] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

being  trafficked  in  the  Firth  of  Clyde  had  at  last 
aroused  the  special  attention  of  the  government. 
The  famous  Heather  Bloom,  a  personage  whose  exist- 
ence had  been  more  or  less  doubted  for  fifteen  years, 
partly  because  it  was  impossible  to  place  his  identity, 
had  convinced  the  revenue  authorities  by  his  daring 
exploits  that  he  was  no  myth,  and  that  his  was  the 
clever  brain  which  directed  the  successful  smuggling 
of  recent  years.  When  young  Ben  Larkin  got  his 
commission  from  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty,  he  re- 
ceived a  clap  on  the  back  from  a  friendly  well-wisher 
and  the  hint  that  if  he  captured  the  man,  or  even 
discovered  his  identity,  there  would  be  greater  honor 
in  store  for  him. 

It  was  in  pursuance  of  his  rigid  policy  of  thor- 
oughly examining  the  credentials  of  every  vessel  that 
moved  in  or  near  Morag  waters,  that  Lieutenant 
Larkin  accompanied  the  coast-guard  and  Mr.  Hor- 
neycraft  aboard  the  Thistle  Down.  Not  that  he  or 
his  associates  expected  to  discover  anything  sus- 
picious or  contraband  about  the  schooner,  which  was 
a  Morag-owned,  Morag-manned  craft,  plying  with 
oats,  broadcloth,  and  general  merchandise  between 
the  Scotch  village  and  English  ports ;  but  the  clever- 
ness of  Heather  Bloom  demanded  that  every  pre- 
caution be  taken. 

In  this  instance  there  might  well  have  been  excuse 
for  special  attention  to  the  Thistle  Down,  for  the 
[20] 


The  Thistle  Down  Comes  to  Port 

schooner  had  just  returned  after  one  of  her  very 
rare  trips  to  Bordeaux,  and  vessels  out  of  that  French 
port  were  ever  worthy  of  close  inspection.  As  Mr. 
Horneycraft  put  it,  in  his  misanthropic  way  of 
thinking  and  speaking: 

"  There  are  lads  aboard  and  lasses  ashore,  and  the 
French  make  fine  gewgaws." 

It  was  impossible  to  know  Mr.  Horneycraft  for 
five  minutes  without  discovering  the  principal  pecu- 
liarity of  his  character.  That  strain  of  suspicious- 
ness  which  is  common  to  man  and  animal,  was  devel- 
oped in  him  to  an  abnormal  degree.  It  may  have 
been  born  in  him,  or  engendered  by  the  nature  of 
his  profession,  but  it  is  certain  that  he  believed  all 
men  were  malefactors,  if  not  in  deed,  at  least  by 
inclination.  As  old  Jack  Cookson  would  say  of  him : 

"  Mr.  Horneycraft,  sir,  would  look  for  contra- 
band under  the  chair  you  offered  him,  by  thunder !  " 

Of  this  old  sea-dog,  what  he  could  not  say  for 
himself  was  never  worth  saying  about  him.  He  had 
fought  under  Nelson  at  Trafalgar,  sir,  and  was  a 
loyal  subject  of  King  George,  bless  'im!  and  he  had 
a  set  of  principles  from  which  no  man  could  force 
him  to  depart,  by  thunder!  It  was  he  who  relieved 
a  certain  stiffness  when  the  three  occupants  of  the 
revenue  boat  boarded  the  Thistle  Down  and  were 
greeted  by  Captain  John  Grant. 

"  I  notice,"  said  Mr.  Horneycraft  icily,  "  that 
[21] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

your  vessel  invariably  arrives  unexpectedly,  Captain 
Grant." 

"For  you,  possibly,"  retorted  the  skipper,  with 
the  ghost  of  a  hard  smile. 

"And  always  at  dawn,  or  late  dusk,"  said  Mr. 
Horneycraft, 

"  By  the  sailor's  timepiece,  it's  all  one,"  said 
the  captain. 

"  Spoken  like  a  British  sailor !  "  cried  the  coast- 
guard, sticking  out  his  one  and  only  hand  to  Captain 
Grant,  who  gripped  it  with  a  laugh.  "  Why,  sir," 
said  old  Cookson,  "  my  old  Admiral,  Horatio  Nelson, 
waited  for  neither  dark  nor  daylight.  '  There's 
the  enemy ! '  ses  'e.  '  Let  'er  go,  my  lads !  West- 
minster Abbey  or  victory ! '  And  before  midnight, 
by  thunder,  we  blew  the  French  flagship  sky-high! 
Yes,  sir — sky-high!  " 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  said  the  captain,  "  I  want  to 
get  ashore.  Will  you  step  into  the  cuddy?  The 
papers  are  all  ready." 

Lieutenant  Ben  Larkin  had  been  running  his 
eyes  over  the  vessel  and  her  commander,  while  old 
Jack  Cookson  was  breaking  the  icicles  between  Hor- 
neycraft and  Grant.  It  was  a  favorite  suspicion 
of  Horneycraft's  that  the  Thistle  Down  was  a  sail- 
ing hotbed  of  contraband.  She  was  the  only  vessel 
of  any  size  which  sailed  in  and  out  of  Alorag  Bay. 
Her  owner  was  her  commander,  Grant,  although  it 
[22] 


The  Thistle  Down  Comes  to  Port 

was  said  that  Richard  Halliday,  the  laird,  had  an 
interest  in  her,  and  rumor  had  it  also  that  old  Giles 
Scryrnegeour,  too,  had  his  talons  in  the  pie. 

Giles,  it  may  be  worth  noting,  controlled  most  of 
the  business  in  Morag,  which  was  the  trade  center 
of  a  large  part  of  the  district  known  as  Cowal. 
Even  the  capital  of  Argyll,  Inveraray,  drew  a  large 
amount  of  her  supplies  through  Morag,  which  was 
conveniently  situated  on  the  Clyde  and  within  easy 
reach  of  Glasgow.  It  has  ever  been  a  matter  for 
surprise  that  Morag  has  not  grown  in  size  and  com- 
mercial importance,  but  even  to  this  day  the  duke 
has  refused  franchise  to  that  main  artery  of  industry, 
the  railway. 

The  Thistle  Down  was  a  craft  of  some  seventy 
tons  burden,  and  presented  a  more  graceful  yacht- 
like  appearance  than  was  usual  in  Clyde  craft  of 
her  size.  Lieutenant  Ben  Larkin  saw  with  a  sailor's 
eye  that  she  was  a  sleek,  slippery  vessel,  and  her 
white  decks  and  shimmering  brass-work  spoke  of 
a  discipline  quite  in  accordance  with  the  appearance 
of  her  master,  Captain  Grant.  The  skipper  was 
a  tall,  broad-beamed  man,  heavy-browed  and  bearded. 
He  spoke  little  and  led  the  way  to  the  schooner's 
cuddy  with  a  decisiveness  that  was  equal  to  a  com- 
mand to  follow.  While  Horneycraft's  suspicious 
eye  peered  at  the  ship's  papers  the  master  stood 
by,  respectful  and  attentive,  but  with  a  hint  of 
[23] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

defiance  in  the  way  he  leaned  his  hand  on  the  table, 
the  fist  shut,  and  a  faint  smile  hovering  about  his 
brown  beard. 

"  Quite  satisfactory,"  said  Mr.  Horneycraft,  and 
added,  almost  like  an  afterthought,  "  Of  course ! " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  captain. 

"  You  must  pardon  me,  Captain  Grant,"  Mr. 
Horneycraft  went  on,  "  but  with  your  permission, 
Mr.  Cookson  and  I  will  look  over  the  ship." 

"  The  permission  is  unnecessary,"  replied  Grant 
ironically. 

"  Merely  a  form,"  put  in  the  lieutenant,  half 
ashamed  of  Mr.  Horneycraft's  lack  of  tact.  "  This 
Heather  Bloom,  you  know — 

"Yes?"  said  the  captain,  his  face  like  a  steel 
trap. 

"  This  Heather  Bloom  is  giving  a  lot  of  trouble. 
In  my  business,  you  know,"  and  Larkin  laughed 
lightly,  "  a  man  is  not  permitted  to  trust  his  own 
brother.  I  am  sure  Mr.  Horneycraft  will  make  his 
visit  as  brief  as  possible." 

"  For  that  matter,"  said  Captain  Grant,  with  his 
cryptic  smile,  "  he  is  welcome  to  remain  aboard  as 
long  as  he  pleases.  Grogblossom !  "  he  added,  rais- 
ing his  voice. 

As  the  fat  sailor  with  the  moribund  thoughts 
entered,  the  master  waved  a  hand.  It  was  like  a 
preconcerted  signal,  for  in  another  moment,  Grog' 
[24] 


The  Thistle  Down  Comes  to  Port 

blossom,  like  a  ponderous  geni  in  a  ludicrous  Ara- 
bian tale,  appeared  with  a  tray,  a  bottle,  and  four 
glasses. 

"  To  your  good  health,  gentlemen ! "  said  the 
captain,  when  the  glasses  were  filled,  and  lifting  his 
own  with  a  gesture  full  of  quiet  dignity. 

"  Here's  to  Heather  Bloom ! "  said  Lieutenant 
Larkin  jocularly. 

"  — when  I  catch  him,"  added  Mr.  Horneycraft 
sourly. 

"  Here's  to  King  George — bless  'im !  "  bellowed 
the  old  coast-guard,  indignant  at  the  omission,  "  and 
confound  his  enemies." 

The  glasses  were  raised  with  a  laugh  which  height- 
ened as  the  lieutenant  cried,  "  and  to  the  lady  in  the 
doorway." 

Standing  on  the  companion-steps  and  looking 
down  into  the  cuddy,  was  the  sweetest,  freshest 
Scotch  lass  it  had  ever  been  the  young  officer's  good 
luck  to  see. 

"  I  looks  toward  you,  madam,"  he  called  gallantly. 
And  he  could  have  sworn  that  she  was  sweeter  than 
any  lass  of  Richmond  Hill  when  she  courtesied,  and 
laughingly  ga.ve  the  correct  response  to  that  old 
toast : 

"  '  I  observes  it,  sir,  and  likewise  bows ! ' : 

At  the  voice,  Captain  Grant  set  down  his  glass 
with  a  sudden  ejaculation  of  pleasure. 
[25] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Ha!  Grizel !  I  thought  I  saw  you  in  the  boat. 
And  who  was  with  you?  " 

"  The  dear  old  dominie,"  she  cried  exuberantly, 
"  and  Mr.  Scrymegeour."  It  was  interesting  to  note 
the  shift  of  her  expression  from  sunshine  to  shadow 
as  she  spoke  the  two  names. 

"  And  where's  the  dominie  ?  "  the  captain  asked. 

"  Coming !  Coming !  "  said  a  voice  from  the  com- 
panion. "  Old  bones,  my  friend,  old  bones.  Crabbed 
age  and  youth,  one  might  say,  cannot  walk  together." 

The  figure  of  a  fine  old  man,  stooped  with  age, 
white-haired  and  with  a  long,  thin  beard  of  the  same 
hue,  came  slowly  down  the  companion,  his  thin  hands 
clutching  firmly  at  his  staff  handle,  over  which  a 
bit  of  white  lace  fell  in  old-fashioned  grace  from 
the  sleeve-cuff. 

The  dominie  was  the  grand  old  man  of  Morag. 
He  knew  the  pedigree  of  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  in  the  parish,  and,  as  the  village  ^Esculapius, 
he  was  acquainted  with  the  personal  idiosyncrasies, 
pathological  tendencies,  and  inherited  strains  of  each 
family.  To  him  were  referred  for  arbitration  all 
questions  of  lore,  learning,  and  law ;  for  besides  being 
a  scholar  of  no  mean  order  in  those  times,  he  was 
a  bailie  in  the  land,  and  when  the  occasion  arose 
administered  a  queer  mixture  of  moral  philosophy 
and  legal  justice. 

Behind  him  as  he  came  down  the  companion-steps 
[26] 


The  Thistle  Down  Comes  to  Port 

was  Giles  Scrymegeour,  the  miser.  As  both  entered 
the  cabin,  the  esteem  in  which  either  man  was  held 
was  marked  by  the  respectful  enthusiasm  with  which 
the  dominie  was  greeted,  even  by  Horneycraft,  and 
the  manner  in  which  Old  Scryme,  of  equal  years, 
slid  like  a  rat  into  a  corner,  after  grinning  and 
nodding  at  each  in  turn. 

"  Well,  business  is  business,"  said  Old  Scryme, 
when  the  usual  welcomes  to  the  ship  were  over. 

At  that,  Mr.  Horneycraft,  having  glanced  at  the 
label  on  the  bottle  which  Grogblossom  had  set  on 
the  table,  rose  and  prepared  to  go  on  a  search 
through  the  ship. 

But  the  voice  of  the  girl  stopped  him.  Grizel, 
after  looking  vainly  around  the  cabin  and  expectantly 
eying  the  companion  until  her  patience  was  ex- 
hausted, suddenly  blurted  out: 

"  Where's  Smuggle-erie  ?  " 

The  words  were  no  sooner  out  of  her  mouth  than 
Old  Scryme,  who  had  been  running  his  nose  over 
the  lines  of  the  manifest,  gave  a  jump  that  brought 
all  eyes  upon  him.  The  miser  was  trembling  like 
a  sick  man.  But  Captain  Grant  looked  up  calmly, 
drew  his  hand  over  his  daughter's  brown  hair,  and 
said: 

"  Is  he  not  aboard,  lass  ?  Then  he  must  ha'  gone 
ashore.  I  mind  he  had  a  bit  of  Valenciennes  lace 
for  you." 

[27] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Indeed,"  said  Horneycraft,  his  tone  full  of  tri- 
umph, and  his  eyes  flashing  from  the  cringing  Old 
Scryme  to  Lieutenant  Larkin.  "  Who  gave  any- 
one permission  to  leave  this  ship  ?  " 

The  captain's  eyes  turned  full  upon  him. 

"  You  speak  to  me,  I  take  it  ?  " 

"  Aye,  to  you.  You  have  been  long  enough  master 
of  a  ship  to  be  aware  that  no  person  may  leave  it 
before  it  has  been  cleared  by  his  majesty's  revenue 
officer?  " 

"  I  am  aware  of  it,"  said  Grant  stonily. 

"  You  are  aware  of  it !  "  snapped  the  exasperated 
Mr.  Horneycraft.  "  Yet  you  calmly  inform  me 
that  one  Smuggle-erie 

"  Gentlemen !  Gentlemen !  "  protested  the  dominie, 
while  Lieutenant  Larkin  grew  red  and  old  Jack 
Cookson  snorted  loudly. 

"  — that  Smuggle-erie — a  likely  name — leaves  the 
ship  with  a  piece  of  Valenciennes  lace." 

"  I  believe  I  said  so  to  my  girl,  here,"  said  Captain 
Grant,  a  red  glow  spreading  around  his  temples. 
"  Be  careful  what  you  say,  now,  Master  Busy- 
body." 

"  Spoken  like  -an  Englishman !  "  the  coast-guard 
burst  out. 

"  Busybody,"  sneered  Mr.  Horneycraft,  his  face 
livid  with  shock.  "  Be  none  too  sure  that  my  busy- 
ness has  been  in  vain,  Captain  Grant,  or  that  the 
[28] 


The  Thistle  Down  Comes  to  Port 

master  of  the  Thistle  Down  has  not  a  name  like 
his  vessel " 

Captain  Grant's  fist  came  down  on  the  table  with 
a  sharp  but  quiet  impact.  The  air  became  charged 
with  menace. 

Horneycraft's  words  died  in  his  throat  as  the 
lion-like  sea-master  rose  to  full  length  before  him. 

Grant's  face  was  pale,  but  his  eyes  and  his  tongue 
were  like  lithe  steel. 

"  King's  officer  or  no,"  he  said,  "  if  you  apply 
that  name  to  me  in  the  presence  of  my  girl,  I  will 
lift  you  by  the  scruff  of  your  scrawny  neck  and 
drop  you  overboard !  •" 


[29] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   VANISHING   SMUGGLER 


THE  captain's  threat  produced  embarrassment 
upon  all  in  the  cabin  of  the  Thistle  Down.  At  a 
sign  from  her  father,  Grizel  fled  to  the  deck.  The 
skipper,  quietly  but  firmly,  faced  Mr.  Horneycraft. 
The  dominie  and  the  coast-guard  both  protested, 
the  former  in  gentle  terms,  the  latter  in  a  series  of 
indignant  snorts.  In  the  corner  was  Giles  Scryme- 
geour,  a  damp,  quivering,  despicable  heap.  The  only 
man  who  acted  with  any  degree  of  promptitude  was 
the  lieutenant,  Ben  Larkin. 

"  Mr.  Horneycraft,"  he  said  sharply,  "  while  it  is 
my  duty  to  support  you  in  matters  of  this  kind, 
I  am  surprised  at  the  stand  you  have  taken.  No 
doubt,  Captain  Grant  erred  in  permitting  any  of 
his  crew  to  leave  the  ship  before  you  cleared  her, 
but  your  insinuation  with  regard  to  a  lad  who  has 
stolen  off,  eager  to  see  his — his  mother,  perhaps,  is 
absurd,  based  as  it  is  upon  a  quibble." 

With  that,  the  lieutenant  marched  up  the  com- 
panion with  a  manly  squaring  of  his  shoulders.  The 
coast-guard  followed  with  an  explosive  "  Spoken 
[30] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

like  an  Englishman ! "  The  dominie  sorrowfully 
tailed  after,  wagging  his  thin,  white  beard  in  elderly 
disapprobation. 

Left  alone  with  the  big-jawed  skipper — for  the 
existence  of  Giles  Scrymegeour  was  overlooked — 
Horneycraft  suddenly  weakened  and  bolted. 

The  moment  he  was  gone,  Captain  Grant  swooped 
down  upon  Old  Scryme. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Master  Scrymegeour,"  said  he, 
with  wrath  and  scorn.  "  I've  been  sick  of  you  for 
twenty  years.  Now,  I'm  sick  of  your  service.  I 
want  you  to  understand  from  this  minute  that  the 
Thistle  Down  has  cheated  the  customs  for  the  last 
time.  And  that's  my  last  word.  You  can  take  your 
own  time  to  swallow  it." 

And  he,  too,  marched  out  of  the  cabin.  Giles 
Scrymegeour  sat  for  a  full  minute,  wet  and  pallid 
with  fright.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  man's  heart 
was  constitutionally  weak.  But  in  a  moment  his 
terror  passed  and  his  breath,  which  had  been  blow- 
ing through  wide-parted  bluish  lips,  began  to  draw 
through  his  teeth.  Into  his  eyes,  too,  came  the  accus- 
tomed sheen  of  cunning. 

"  We'll  see !     We'll  see !  "  he  said,  half  aloud. 

Then  he  gathered  up  the  papers,  stuffed  them 
in  his  pockets,  and  scurried  up  the  stairs,  for  all 
the  world  like  a  rat  on  a  still-hunt. 

Lieutenant  Ben  Larkin,  in  the  meantime,  had  for- 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

gotten  his  wrath  the  moment  he  reached  the  deck. 
The  Thistle  Down  now  presented  an  animated  scene. 
Although  it  was  almost  dark,  the  Morag  folk  had 
taken  advantage  of  the  coming  of  the  ship  and  the 
fine  autumn  evening,  to  make  a  gala-night  of  it. 
Lads  and  lasses  and  village  worthies  were  swarming 
aboard  to  welcome  sons  and  lovers  from  foreign 
shores,  for  in  those  days  it  was  a  far  cry  to  France, 
and  especially  to  Bordeaux,  which  entailed  the  voyage 
through  the  dreaded  Bay  of  Biscay  and  up  the 
stream  of  the  Garonne.  And  the  foreign  wonders 
which  the  sailors  brought  to  sleepy  little  Morag  after 
such  a  trip,  aroused  an  excitement  which  was  not 
equaled  even  by  the  annual  Highland  games  at 
Inveraray. 

But,  although  the  picture  charmed  Lieutenant 
Larkin — the  lasses  in  their  Sunday  finery  and  the 
sailors  with  their  white  socks  and  knotted  kerchiefs — • 
the  thing  that  most  pleased  his  eye  was  the  girl  he 
had  seen  in  the  cabin. 

Grizel  was  about  seventeen  years  old,  still  girlish, 
but  carrying  herself  with  the  modesty  and  inex- 
plicable grace  of  dawning  womanhood.  She  was 
the  nut-brown  lass  of  song.,  with  her  glossy'  hair, 
honest,  full,  brown  eyes,  soft  sun-tanned  skin  and 
white  teeth  which,  Ben  swore  to  himself,  were  like 
coral  reefs  and  as  dangerous  to  a  sailor.  She  cut 
a  pretty  figure  in  her  short  skirt,  big-bowed  shoes, 
[32] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

bright-buttoned,  sleeveless  jacket  and  Tam-o'-Shan- 
ter,  as  she  kept  step  with  strutting  old  Jack  Cookson 
on  the  poop-deck. 

The  coast-guard,  of  course,  was  monopolizing  the 
conversation,  and  anyone  could  have  judged  the 
topic  by  the  angle  of  the  telescope  under  the  arm- 
stump  and  the  way  he  pointed  heroically  to  the 
upper  rigging  of  the  schooner.  One  expected  to  see 
the  picture  rounded  off  with  a  ball  from  the  crow's- 
nest  of  the  Redoubtable  and  Nelson  falling  upon  the 
quarter-deck  of  the  Thistle  Down. 

Larkin  was  waiting  his  chance  to  capture  the 
pretty  lass,  while  pretending  to  be  looking  over  the 
ship's  side,  where  a  dozen  rowboats  crowded  around 
the  revenue  cutter,  which  was  neatly  manned  by 
bluejackets.  A  hand  suddenly  fell  upon  the  lieu- 
tenant's arm — the  stealthy,  impressive,  important 
hand  of  Mr.  Horneycraft.  The  collector's  face 
was  still  pale  with  anger,  and  when  he  spoke  it 
was  in  a  spiteful  undertone,  full  of  omen  for  the 
subject. 

"  I  thank  you,  lieutenant,  for  your  support  in 
the  unpleasant  incident  downstairs,"  he  said,  with 
quiet  incision.  "  Nevertheless,  I  hope  to  impress 
upon  you  that  your  mole-hill  is  my  mountain.  If 
this  person,  Smuggle-erie " 

Larkin's  brows  knitted  irritably. 

"  If  this  Smuggle-erie,"  Mr.  Horneycraft  persisted 
[33] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

calmly,  "  left  the  schooner,  as  it  is  admitted  he  did, 
how  did  he  go? — swim?  " 

And  Mr.  Horneycraft,  with  a  fine  gesture  of  tri- 
umph, waved  his  hands  round  at  the  schooner's  boats, 
which  hung  intact  upon  the  davits. 

At  one  glance  Lieutenant  Larkin  knew  that  no 
boat  belonging  to  the  schooner  had,  as  yet,  been 
lowered.  But  he  turned  angrily  upon  Horneycraft. 

"  You  are  talking  nonsense,  sir !  "  he  cried.  "  Are 
there  not  a  dozen  boats  alongside,  and 

"  He  left  in  none  of  them  !  "  retorted  Mr.  Horney- 
craft. "  My  inquiries  have  determined  that.  Be- 
sides, I  took  the  liberty  of  instructing  your  blue- 
jackets before — — ' 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  lieutenant,  his  face  flushing. 
"  Then  I  have  no  manner  of  doubt  that  the  man 
did  not  leave  the  ship  after  we  came  aboard." 

"  Well  ?  "  sneered  Mr.  Horneycraft. 

"  Well !  "  the  lieutenant  fairly  shouted.  "  I  sup- 
pose, as  you  say,  he  swam  ashore." 

"  Not  necessarily,"  the  revenue  collector  responded 
sweetly.  "Perhaps  a  boat  met  the  Thistle  Down 
in  the  offing  before  she " 

The  lieutenant  smiled. 

"Quite  possible,  Mr.  Horneycraft,"  he  inter- 
rupted ;  "  but  I  fancy  you  are  trying  to  make  facts 
to  fit  your  suspicions.  Far  be  it  from  me " 

He  stopped  short  and  his  eyes  suddenly  widened 
[34] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

with  wonder.  They  had  been  conversing  by  the 
gunwale,  amidships,  and  not  three  paces  from  the 
door  of  the  cook's  galley. 

The  lieutenant  had  suddenly  turned  to  discover 
the  moribund  Grogblossom  looking  straight  at  himself 
and  Horneycraft,  and  with  an  expression  on  his  face 
that  betokened  considerable  interest  in  what  he  was 
overhearing.  But  the  moment  his  eyes  met  Larkin's, 
Grogblossom's  face  took  on  its  usual  pig  look  and 
he  busied  himself  scouring  a  frying-pan,  at  the  same 
time  whistling  a  tune  with  unusual  rapidity.  It 
was  the  lively  air  of  a  quaint  old  Scotch  song,  and 
after  he  had  run  through  a  verse,  Grogblossom  began 
at  the  beginning  again: 

"  Pease  brose  again,  mither,  pease  brose  again!" 

Then  an  odd  thing  happened.  From  some  other  part 
of  the  ship,  the  air  of  the  second  line  was  smartly 
taken  up: 

"  Ye  feed  me  like  a  blackbird  and  me  yer  only  wean!  " 

Grogblossom's  whistle  had  stopped  short  to  admit 
the  second  line,  but  as  soon  as  it  was  finished,  his 
fat  lips  pursed  and  he  was  off  again  with  the  third 
and  fourth  lines. 

"  That's  queer !  "  thought  Larkin. 

He  listened  intently  but,  although  Grogblossom 
[35] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

went  on  whistling  shrilly,  the  clever  interpolation  did 
not  recur,  and  presently  the  lieutenant  was  willing  to 
admit  that  his  ear  had  played  him  a  trick. 

When  he  turned  away,  Horneycraft  had  vanished, 
and  at  the  same  time  Larkin  saw  the  coast-guard 
leave  the  poop.  In  a  minute  the  gallant  lieutenant 
was  at  Grizel's  side,  apologizing  for  Mr.  Horney- 
craft's  unseemly  behavior  in  the  cabin. 

"  Oh,  everybody  kens  Mr.  Horneycraft ! "  she 
said,  in  her  frank,  laughing  Scotch  tongue. 

"  And  was  it  about  the  battle  of  the  Nile,  or 
Trafalgar,  that  old  Jack  was  holding  forth?  " 

"  Neither,  Mr.  Clever,"  said  she.  "  He  was  telling 
me  about  the  time  when  he  was  stationed  at  Jamaica — 
place  they  make  rum,  sir — waiting  for  the  French, 
by  thunder !  and  Nelson  on  the  lookout  with  his  tele- 
scope, sir!—  She  broke  off  her  mimicry  with  a 
peal  of  laughter. 

"  I  knew  he'd  get  Nelson  in  somewhere,"  said 
Larkin,  who,  nevertheless,  had  a  great  respect  for 
the  old  sea-dog  who  had  seen  England's  greatest  hero 
carried  to  the  cock-pit. 

"  Tell  me,  captain,"  said  she.     "  How  many " 

"  Lieutenant,"  he  corrected  modestly. 

"  Well,  you'll  be  an  admiral  some  day,"  she  said, 
by  way  of  comfort.  "But  tell  me,  how  many 
smugglers  have  you  caught  since  you  came  to 
Morag?  " 

[36] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Why,  I  have  only  been  here  a  week,"  he  pro- 
tested. 

"  But  ye  havena  answered  my  question,"  she  per- 
sisted mischievously.  "  How  many  smugglers  have 
ye  caught?  " 

"  None  so  far,"  he  admitted.  "  But  Mr.  Horney- 
craft  is  sure  we  are  going  to  catch  plenty  before 
long.  In  fact,"  he  added  with  a  chuckle,  "  he  has 
quite  made  up  his  mind  that  this  Smuggle-erie  is 
the  terrible  Heather  Bloom." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  in  alarm.     "  That's  not  so." 

He  tried  to  see  her  face  in  the  dusk,  but  could 
not. 

"  It's  only  a  nickname,"  she  said  earnestly.  "  You 
see,  he  had  it  when  he  was  a  little  lad,  and  it's  stuck 
to  him.  Smuggle-erie's  a  game." 

"  A  great  game,  indeed,"  he  observed.  "  Tell  me, 
Miss  Grizel,  who  is  this  Smuggle-erie?  " 

"  Smuggle-erie  ?  "  she  echoed,  after  a  perceptible 
pause.  If  it  had  been  lighter  he  would  have  seen 
her  color  deepen.  "  Why,  he's — he's  Smuggle-erie." 

"  I'm  not  much  wiser." 

"  Well — Smuggle-erie,"  she  stammered,  and  the 
queer  name  fell  from  her  tongue  with  a  quaint  turn, 
"  Smuggle-erie's  a  nephew,  in  a  way,  to  that  man 
Scrymegeour." 

"  Oh !  "  he  breathed  comprehendingly. 

"  But  Smuggle-erie's  not  like  him,  ye  ken,"  she 
[37] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

hastened  to  correct.  "  He's  only  a  kind  of  nephew. 
Smuggle-erie's — he's — he's  very  different !  " 

"  Oh !  "  said  Larkin  once  more,  and  this  time  the 
comprehending  breath  had  a  tinge  of  disappointment 
in  it. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  which  was,  some- 
how, awkward. 

Ben  Larkin  looked  out  over  the  dim,  calm  Firth  of 
Clyde.  He  did  not  need  to  be  told  who  Smuggle-erie 
was,  as  related  to  Grizel  Grant. 

And  he  felt  more  lonely  over  the  knowledge  than 
he  had  done  over  anything  since  he  came  to  sleepy 
Morag.  He  supposed  it  was  one  of  those  village 
matches — a  girl  allotted  to  marry  a  man  whom  she 
respected  only  because  she  had  become  used  to  the 
idea  of  looking  upon  him  as  her  future  husband.  He 
was  probably  some  rascally  sailor,  stupidly  romantic, 
brutally  healthy,  and  notoriously  evil.  It  seemed 
a  pity — a  shame.  This  girl,  Grizel,  was  worthy  of 
a  better  fate.  But,  of  course,  she  would  marry  the 
sailor  and,  in  time,  she  would  develop  into  the  long- 
tongued,  slovenly  matron  that  was  so  characteristic 
of  Morag. 

Something  interrupted  Larkin's  train  of  pessimism. 
It  was  a  boat  gliding  in  toward  the  southern  end 
of  the  cove  from  the  open  firth.  He  looked  at  the 
craft  for  a  moment.  The  shapeless  mass  of  the  hull 
did  not  impress  him  until  he  suddenly  noticed  the 
[38] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

movement  of  her  rowers  and  observed  with  a  mental 
start  that  the  craft  glided  as  silently  as  a  phantom. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  he  asked  sharply,  breaking  the 
pause  in  a  way  that  startled  the  girl. 

"  That  ?  "  she  said  stupidly,  her  eye  following  the 
line  of  his  extended  arm.  "  That's  a  boat." 

"  A  boat — of  course.     What  boat  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ? "  she  retorted  stiffly. 
"  Most  like  it's  a  fisherman." 

"  A  fisherman,"  he  said,  half  to  himself.  "  It's 
more  like  a  smuggler.  Why  are  the  oars  muffled?  " 

"  Exactly !  "  said  Mr.  Horneycraf t,  coming  up 
behind.  "  Possibly  the  lieutenant,  having  done  his 
best  to  obstruct  my  business,  will  now  attend  to  his 
own." 

Larkin  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  face,  but  he  had 
no  answer  ready,  except  that  of  action. 

"  Mr.  Horneycraft,"  he  said  sternly,  "  send  Jack 
Cookson  ashore  at  once.  His  orders  are  to  find  this 
man,  Smuggle-erie,  if  he  is  in  Morag.  If  not " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no ! "  cried  Grizel  suddenly,  as  if 
she  had  been  hurt.  "  You  are  wrong !  You  are 
wrong ! " 

"  My  duty,  madam,"  he  replied  shortly.  "  Rest 
assured  of  him  if  he  is  where  he  ought  to  be." 

With  that  he  left  her  hurriedly  and  dropped  into 
the  cutter. 

A  moment  later  she  heard  his  voice  raised  in  sharp 
[39] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

command  and  then  came  the  splash  of  six  oars  strik- 
ing the  water  simultaneously.  Something  new  in 
her  life — a  dread  of  the  indefinable,  a  sense  of  in- 
comprehensible evil — surrounded  her  suddenly.  The 
penny  whistle  which  Grogblossom  was  blowing,  lust- 
ily, to  the  tune  of  "  Pease  brose  again,  mither," 
seemed  fraught  with  this  mysterious  terror. — She 
leaned  over  the  stern  of  the  schooner  and  stared  at 
the  dim  shadow  of  the  strange  boat,  and  her  fear 
rose  in  her  throat  as  the  cutter  shot  out  to  the 
rhythmic  music  of  trained  oars.  She  heard  her 
father's  step  behind  her,  and  his  voice  bidding  her 
get  ready  for  the  shore,  but  her  response  was  a  half- 
hysterical  cry: 

"  Father !  They  say  Smuggle-erie's  in  yon  boat, 
and  it's  a  smuggler." 

"  Who  said  so  ?  "  Grant  asked  sharply. 

"  The  lieutenant — Mr.  Horneycraft." 

"  Keep  quiet,  child !  "  he  said  sternly.  "  This  is 
mere  blethering.  You  and  I  are  going  ashore  to  the 
little  home  for  supper." 

His  hand  rested  on  her  shoulder,  but  he  made  no 
move  to  lead  her  away.  Indeed,  he  stood  by  her  side 
and,  in  silence,  watched  the  revenue  cutter  sweep 
toward  the  headland  called  the  Bull  Rock.  That 
seemed  to  be  the  point  toward  which  the  mysterious 
boat  was  moving.  The  latter  craft  was  coming 
straight  in  from  the  firth,  and  as  the  Thistle  Down 
[40] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

lay  at  anchor  near  the  north  end  of  the  bay,  the 
courses  of  the  two  boats,  when  joined,  would  form 
a  right  angle.  The  boat  with  the  muffled  oars  had 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  go.  To  intercept  her 
the  cutter  had  more  than  half  a  mile  to  cover,  but 
allowing  for  the  superior  speed  and  manning  of  the 
latter,  the  result  of  the  race  provided  interesting 
speculation. 

Mr.  Horneycraft  was  another  spectator  of  the 
contest,  but  his  eyes  did  not  linger  on  it  as  much 
as  upon  the  crew  of  the  Thistle  Down. 

Grogblossom  had  laid  aside  his  penny  whistle.  He 
and  the  Red  Mole,  with  a  few  others,  were  loitering 
about  the  larboard  side  of  the  schooner,  furtively 
watching  the  cutter  and  her  quarry. 

"  Strange !  "  reflected  Mr.  Horneycraft  gleefully. 
"  Not  a  man  in  a  hundred  would  have  noticed  that 
boat,  and  yet  they  are  staring  as  if  their  lives  de- 
pended upon  the  result."  And  he  smiled  the  smile 
of  self-satisfaction. 

Another  witness  was  Giles  Scrymegeour.  Behind 
the  mizzenmast  he  stood,  washing  his  hands  in  in- 
visible water.  Once  or  twice  he  essayed  to  walk  the 
deck,  but  to  his  guilty  imagination  it  seemed  that 
the  whole  world  was  watching  the  race,  whereas  Mr. 
Horneycraft's  estimate  of  those  who  could  have  ob- 
served the  incident  was,  indeed,  not  far  wrong.  But 
to  Giles  Scrymegeour  it  was  as  if  every  eye  was  upon 
[41] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

him  to  see  how  he  enjoyed  the  suspense.  He  crept 
back  into  the  shadow  of  the  mast  and  stayed  there 
until  the  end  came. 

But  to  none  was  the  upshot  fraught  with  such 
tragedy  as  to  Grizel  Grant  and  her  father.  Minutes 
passed  and  they  were  still  standing  on  the  poop,  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder  and  his  breath  drawing  deep 
and  strong.  She  noticed  a  growing  pressure  of  his 
hand,  but  ascribed  it  to  her  own  strange  agitation. 
Straight  as  an  arrow  the  cutter  shot  toward  the  Bull 
Rock,  and  to  that  same  point  glided  the  silent  boat 
from  the  sea.  Now  they  were  nearing.  But  two 
hundred  yards  divided  the  rock  from  the  revenue 
cutter,  and  less  than  one  hundred  from  the  craft 
with  the  muffled  oars.  The  cutter  dashed  through 
the  water;  the  strange  boat's  speed  increased.  Now 
the  respective  distances  from  the  rock  were  seventy- 
five  yards  and  forty  yards;  now  fifty  yards  and 
thirty ;  now  thirty  yards  and  less  than  twenty ;  fifteen 
yards  and — the  mysterious  craft  shot  toward  the 
haven  in  a  last  effort  to  evade  the  cutter. 

Grizel's  hand  gripped  her  father's  arm  and  a  cry 
choked  her.  The  skipper's  breathing  came  to  her 
ears  in  quick,  heavy  spasms.  His  hand  gripped  and 
tightened  on  her  shoulder. 

Between  the  cutter  and  the  Bull  Rock  stood  ten 
yards. 

Even  on  the  Thistle  Down  those  who  were  watch- 
[42] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

ing  could  hear  the  voice  of  the  lieutenant  crying: 
"  Now,  my  lads  !  " 

A  few  more  strolls  and  the  strange  boat  would 
be  intercepted.  In  any  event  she  must  be  captured 
before  her  bows  grated  on  the  beach,  if  indeed,  there 
was  any  beach  within  a  hundred  yards  of  that  great 
sea-bowlder. 

A  groan  burst  from  her  father's  lips. 

Grizel  saw  the  boats  seemingly  merged  together 
for  a  moment  in  the  angle  of  meeting ;  then 

"  Thank  God ! "  said  Captain  Grant,  in  a  tense 
whisper. 

Grizel  could  hardly  believe  her  eyes.  The  mys- 
terious craft  had  suddenly  vanished  as  if  engulfed 
in  the  sea  or  in  the  great  rock.  At  the  same  moment 
a  command  sounded  over  the  darkling  bay  and  the 
revenue  cutter  was  seen  to  run  on  her  own  impetus 
with  her  oars  trailing  idly  in  the  water. 

"  Gone !  "  Grizel  cried  in  amazement. 

In  the  stern  of  the  cutter  Lieutenant  Ben  Larkin 
sat  stupefied. 

"  Gone !  "  he  gasped.  Then  awaking,  like  a  man 
who  realizes  that  he  has  been  the  victim  of  some 
optical  illusion,  he  cried  sharply  to  his  men :  "  Which 
way?" 

"  Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  bowman,  all 
in  a  shake.  "  That  waren't  no  real  boat,  sir,  beggin' 
your  pardon,  sir." 

[43] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  What  rubbish  is  this ! "  thundered  Larkin. 
"  Are  you  all  blind  ?  "  Then,  becoming  aware  that 
he  was  losing  his  temper,  he  suddenly  altered  his 
tone.  "  Something  wrong  here,  men !  Come,  there 
must  be  a  passage." 

At  his  command  the  cutter  moved  slowly  into  the 
shadow  of  the  great  black  rock,  which  arose  straight 
and  slippery  from  the  sea.  Behind  it,  a  semicircular 
passage  divided  it  from  the  mainland,  where  again 
a  landing  was  forbidden  by  a  perpendicular  precipice. 
In  the  unnatural  gloom  between  these  formidable 
ramparts,  no  break  or  inlet  was  to  be  seen  where 
a  boat  could  have  so  mysteriously  vanished.  Yet, 
when  continual  grazing  of  the  rocks  on  either  side 
of  the  cutter  suggested  a  prudent  cessation  of  oar- 
ing, neither  sight  nor  sound  was  to  be  seen  nor 
heard  to  suggest  the  presence  of  any  living  thing. 
The  waters  gurgled  under  the  barnacled  sea-walls, 
and  as  the  waves  drew  back,  the  tresses  of  sea-weed 
dripped  and  trailed  like  wet  hair. 

One  of  the  men  uttered  an  exclamation  of  super- 
stitious fear.  The  sense  of  the  ghostly  spread,  and 
when  the  command  to  back  out  of  the  dangerous 
waterway  came  it  was  obeyed  with  alacrity. 

Once  outside,  the  men  leaned  on  their  oars,  while 
Lieutenant  Larkin  stared  unbelievingly  at  the  Bull 
Rock  and  the  cliffs  before  him. 

"It's  a  trick!"  he  exclaimed. 
[44] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

What  he  did  not  say  was  that  the  truth  had  sud- 
denly dawned  upon  him.  He  was  at  the  door  of 
the  Heather  Bloom  mystery,  and  all  that  was  needed 
was  the  magic  sesame  that  would  reveal  the  inside 
of  the  whole  business. 

Of  one  thing  he  was  certain  without  knowing  why : 
that  Smuggle-erie  was  in  that  vanishing  boat. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  reiterations  of  Horneycraft; 
perhaps  the  agitation  of  Grizel  when  the  possibility 
was  suggested;  perhaps  his  conviction  was  due  to 
the  mere  fact  that  the  man  left  the  ship  before  she 
dropped  anchor;  yet,  it  was  more  likely  that  his 
sense  of  certainty  was  the  result  of  the  consecutive 
facts  and  suggestions.  One  thing  which  he  did  not 
realize,  however,  and  which  was  singing  confusedly 
in  the  subconscious  recesses  of  his  mind,  was  the 
association  of  the  tune  which  he  had  heard  Grog- 
blossom  render  in  the  galley  and  which  had  thrilled 
through  the  dusk  as  the  cutter  shot  out  from  the 
Thistle  Down. 

He  gave  the  command  to  row  back  to  the  schooner, 
and  his  eyes  almost  involuntarily  turned  to  the  bay 
shore  where  the  road  ran  through  the  dark  belt  of 
firs.  The  land  at  that  point  was  as  dark  as  sepia, 
but  to  Larkin's  imagination  it  seemed  as  if  he  could 
discern  a  shadow,  shaped  like  a  man,  running. 

As  the  cutter  finally  shot  under  the  hull  of  the 
Thistle  Down,  he  was  filled  with  the  notion  that  he 
[45] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

had  seen  another  boat  moving  from  the  shore  to  the 
starboard  of  the  schooner. 

But  it  was  apparently  a  creation  of  his  eager 
brain,  for  when  he  climbed  to  the  deck  and  made 
his  way  to  the  cabin,  old  Jack  Cookson  arose  to 
meet  him  with  a  hearty  "  What,  ho !  " 

"  Come  aboard,  adm'ral !  "  said  he,  waving  his  hand 
to  an  eagle-eyed,  sunburned  young  viking,  who 
stood  up  with  a  mischievous  devil-take-me  grin  as 
Larkin  turned  to  him.  "  Orders  is  orders,  sir.  This 
is  the  man,  Smuggle-erie." 

"  Where  did  you  find  him  ?  "  asked  Larkin,  meet- 
ing the  eye  of  the  young  sailor  with  never  a  tremor 
of  his  own. 

"  On  the  beach,  sir,"  said  the  coast-guard,  saluting 
with  one  finger.  "  Daffing  wi'  the  lasses,  by  thun- 
der!" 

Beaten !  The  word  sparkled,  but  without  malice, 
in  Smuggle-erie's  eyes,  as  clearly  as  if  he  had  chuckled 
it.  Ben  Larkin  swallowed  his  pride  with  difficulty. 
Then,  acting  upon  impulse,  he  held  out  his  hand; 
for  at  the  first  glance,  the  man  in  him  had  recognized 
the  man  in  Smuggle-erie.  And  as  the  two  men 
gripped,  it  was  with  an  unspoken  understanding  of 
mutual  appreciation  and  mutual  war. 


[46] 


CHAPTER  IV 

GRANT'S  CONFESSION 

"  GROGBLOSSOM,"  Smuggle-erie  said  next  morning, 
"  I'm  going  ashore.  How  do  I  look?  " 

He  gave  himself  a  little  shake  to  make  his  shore 
togs  set  straight,  and  pulled  his  usually  mobile  face 
into  the  fixed  smile  of  a  portrait.  Grogblossom  came 
out  of  the  galley,  wiped  his  face,  and,  as  he  scanned 
the  young  viking  before  him,  drew  his  mouth  corners 
into  the  curves  of  his  cheeks  in  the  effort  of  judg- 
ment. 

"  Ye'll  do !  Ye'll  do !  "  he  finally  announced,  nod- 
ding his  head.  And  at  that  Smuggle-erie's  pose  re- 
laxed. "  It's  a  bonny  hanky,"  observed  Grogblos- 
som, referring  to  the  spotted  kerchief,  which 
Smuggle-erie  had  spent  a  good  half-hour  tying  care- 
fully into  a  careless  knot.  "  Ye'll  hae  dressed  yersel' 
to  visit  yer  Uncle  Giles,  I  tak'  it,"  added  Grogblos- 
som, with  a  twinkle  of  his  little  pig  eyes,  for  Smuggle- 
erie's  attire  was  in  the  nature  of  an  event. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Smuggle-erie,  grinning.  "  I'm 
going  to  sit  on  his  counter  and  help  him  brush  the 
flies  off  the  cheese.  Poor  man,  he's  lacking  sleep  since 
[47] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

he  forgot  to  file  the  edge  off  a  guinea  he  gave  the 
Laird." 

"  Mv  respecks  to  the  lass,"  said  Grogblossom,  and 
added  thoughtfully,  "  if  ye  should  happen  t'see  her." 

"I  will  that,"  laughed  Smuggle-erie,  dropping 
down  the  rope  ladder  to  the  skiff  alongside. 

"  Man,"  said  Grogblossom,  lazily  leaning  over  the 
gunwale,  "  I  weesh  ye'd  tak'  that  Red  Heid  an'  have 
him  get  his  hair  cut.  It  bothers  me." 

"  He  has  something  else  on  hand,"  said  Smuggle- 
erie  with  a  wink,  "  and  I'm  thinking  that  with  blue- 
jackets and  Horneycrafts  and  brand-new  admirals, 
Red  Mole  and  the  wheen  of  us'll  have  our  hands  full 
for  a  while,  leastways  till  this  schooner  clears.  So 
long,  Groggy.  Keep  sober." 

And  away  shot  the  skiff  over  the  calm  morning 
waters  of  Morag  Bay,  impelled  by  Smuggle-erie's 
lusty  arms.  Grogblossom  watched  the  knifelike  split 
of  the  water  in  the  skiff's  wake. 

"  That  young,"  he  sighed,  "  and  that  wickit.  Sae 
fu'  o'  hope  an'  strength  an'  a'  life  afore  'im.  Losh, 
who's  yon  in  the  ither  skiff?  "  he  said  aloud,  as  Smug- 
gle-erie's little  craft  shot  across  the  bows  of  a  similar 
one,  rowed  by  a  young  man  in  gray  tweeds.  "  It 
looks  like  yon  lufftenant,  but  he's  cast  off  his  brass 
buttons.  Might  as  weel.  Sodgers  an'  sailor-sodgers 
is  cuddies,  chasin'  after  evildoers  wi'  brass  bands 
and  brass  buttons  and  brass  tiliscopes  an5  blue  an' 
[48] 


Grant's  Confession 

green  lichts.  Losh!  look  at  that  young  deevil, 
wavin'  his  hand  to  the  lufftenant  as  if  he'd  been 
at  dinner  wi'  him  the  night  before,  instead  o'  rurniin' 
for  his  very  life !  " 

Grogblossom  sighed,  and  the  ever-ready  sentimental 
tear  trickled  from  his  left  eye. 

"  That's  the  way  o'  him.  Pullin'  the  deevil's  tail, 
as  ye  might  say — puttin'  a  match  to  gunpowder  t'see 
if  it'll  blow  up.  But  it's  the  way  o'  youth — the  way 
o'  youth !  It's  a  wunner  to  me  how  bairns  grow  up 
alive,  what  wi'  fallin'  doon-stairs,  tumblin'  in  ponds, 
eatin'  sour  apples,  an'  sich-like.  But  it's  the  way  o' 
youth — the  way  o'  youth !  "  And  Grogblossom,  com- 
pletely overcome  by  the  appalling  optimism  of  some 
of  God's  creatures,  waddled  into  the  galley  and,  hav- 
ing reconnoitered  the  deck,  larboard  and  starboard, 
helped  himself  to  a  pan  of  grog  and  settled  down  in 
reverie. 

Smuggle-erie,  in  the  meantime,  shot  past  Lieutenant 
Larkin,  whose  presence  in  civilian  attire  and  in  Jack 
Cookson's  skiff,  was  as  large  print  in  an  open  book  to 
him. 

"  A  fine  morning,  adm'ral  I  "  he  hailed. 

"  Very  fine,"  Larkin  replied,  feathering  his 
oar  calmly  as  he  passed  across  Smuggle-erie's 
track. 

"  There's  good  flounder  spearing  in  the  bay ! " 
shouted  Smuggle-erie. 

[49] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Thanks ;  I'm  after  smugglers ! "  was  the  candid 
retort. 

Smuggle-erie  laughed,  wished  him  luck,  and  pres- 
ently his  skiff  was  out  of  earshot.  When  the  young 
sailor  beached  his  boat,  he  shook  the  folds  out  of  his 
breeches,  smoothed  his  jacket,  gave  his  kerchief  a 
dainty  wiggle,  and  set  off  through  the  one  and  only 
street  of  Morag,  waving  his  hand  to  passers-by  and 
receiving  many  a  cheery  salute ;  for  Smuggle-erie  was 
a  favorite. 

There  was  that  about  the  lad  which  was  lovable, 
although  in  the  very  reckless  good-humor  for  which 
he  was  liked,  a  shrewd  judge  would  have  marked  a 
character  whose  ruling  principle  was  the  line  of  least 
resistance.  He  loved  that  which  loved  him,  and  hated 
that  which  caused  him  discomfort. 

In  appearance,  he  was  all  of  a  sailor,  as  he  is  drawn 
by  the  idealist,  and  this  was  due,  probably,  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  something  more  than  a  sailor. 
Neither  he  nor  any  man  aboard  the  Thistle  Down  but 
carried  himself  with  an  air  of  independence  not  to  be 
remarked  in  your  true  seaman  before  the  mast.  There 
was  nothing  of  the  hang-dog  air  which  comes  from  the 
haunting  fear  of  the  mate's  fist.  Smuggle-erie's  car- 
riage was  that  of  a  man  who  loved  his  employ,  and  his 
quick  eye  and  square  brow  indicated  that  his  employ 
was  not  all  of  the  hand  and  back.  And  aside  from 
all  this,  there  was  a  certain  air  of  nobility  about  the 
[50] 


Grant's  Confession 

youth's  mannerisms  which  compelled  attention.  In 
the  middle  of  his  irresponsibility,  it  would  flash  out  in 
a  glance  of  the  eye,  or  in  a  sudden  fleeting  expression 
of  his  ever-changing  face. 

His  first  stop  in  the  village  was  at  Giles  Scryme- 
geour's  shop,  a  half-store,  half-office,  half -warehouse. 
Bales  and  barrels  of  flour,  fish,  hides,  liquors,  and 
what-not,  which  were  being  landed  from  the  schooner, 
strewed  the  bit  of  paving  before  the  place.  In  tHe 
middle  of  the  confusion  Old  Scryme  danced  about, 
scolding,  directing,  nosing,  and  grumbling.  As 
Smuggle-erie  hove  in  sight,  the  old  miser  tried 
to  appear  as  busy  as  he  could,  for  ever  since 
a  certain  night,  twelve  years  before,  the  situa- 
tion between  guardian  and  ward  had  changed,  and 
Scryme  nursed  a  silent  hatred,  not  unmingled 
with  fear,  of  his  loud-talking,  reckless-tongued 
"  nephew." 

Smuggle-erie,  on  the  other  hand,  cared  no  more  for 
the  old  scoundrel  than  for  a  dead  snake.  With  an 
irreverent  "  Morning,  nunky ! "  he  sailed  into  the 
ahop  and  vaulted  over  the  counter.  Down  on  the  old 
iron  box  he  sat,  and  taking  a  gully-knife  from  his 
pocket,  began  to  cut  chunks  from  an  adjacent  cheese 
and  cram  them  into  his  mouth. 

"  That's  good  cheese,  nunky,"  said  he. 

"  Be  canny  wi't,  man ! "  Old  Scryme  protested. 
"  Ye'd  think  I  got  it  for  nothing." 
[51] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Next  to  nothing,  nunky.  This  is  what  you  call 
Gowdy  cheese,  is  it  no?  " 

"  Go  away,"  grumbled  Old  Scryme.  "  Can  ye  no 
see  I'm  full  of  beez'ness?  " 

"  I'm  not  bothering  you,"  said  Smuggle-erie,  tak- 
ing several  apples  from  a  barrel,  squeezing  them  into 
his  pockets,  and  digging  his  teeth  into  one. 

"  Wha  gied  ye  permeession  tae  eat  into  ma  stock- 
in-trade  like  that?  "  whined  Giles  Scrymegeour. 

Smuggle-erie  stared  at  his  "  uncle  "  for  a  moment, 
his  eyes  wide  with  mock  astonishment. 

"  Permeession  ?  Permeession !  "  he  gasped,  then 
burst  out  in  a  roar  of  rich  laughter.  "  Nunky ! 
Nunky !  You'll  be  the  death  o'  me." 

"  Aye,  will  I,  some  o'  the  days ! "  snarled  the  old 
man. 

"  That's  strange,"  said  Smuggle-erie,  reaching  out 
his  hand  and  taking  a  fine  silk  scarf  off  the  counter. 
"  D'ye  ken,  nunky,  I  mind  when  I  was  a  wee  bit  lad 
and  slept  in  the  garret  up-stairs,  I  used  to  think 
how  some  night  I'd  crawl  down  and  slit  your  throat — 
that's  a  pretty  kerchief,  nunky.  How'd  it  suit  me? 
— and  after  that,  force  open  your  old  iron  box  here 
and  take  all  your  guineas  and  give  all  the  papers 
and  things  back  to  the  poor  folk  you  squeezed  'em 
from." 

"  Ye — ye — oh,  ye  rapscallion !  "  hissed  Old  Scryme, 
as  his  dutiful  ward  stood  up  before  a  cheap  looking- 
•«  [52] 


Grant's  Confession 

glass  and  proceeded  to  tie  the  silk  scarf  in  place  of 
his  own  more  modest  kerchief. 

"  Was  it  a  viper  I  nursed  in  ma  basom?  "  cried 
Giles  Scrymegeour.  "  Oh,  ye — ye — me  that  tuk  ye 
oot  o'  the  poorhouse,  where  ye'd  ha'  been  brought  up 
on  skilly  an'  water,  an' " 

"  Say,  nunky — honest  now !  Why  did  you  take  me 
out  of  the  poorhouse?  Wasn't  it  after  ye'd  skinned 
my  old  man  to  the  bone  that  your  conscience  got  the 
better  o'  ye?  " 

"  Skinned  yer  father  to  the  bone?  "  shrieked  the 
miser.  "  It  was  beez'ness,  I  tell  ye,  pure  beez'ness, 
and  it  was  nae  fault  o'  mine  if  yer  father  was  a  fool !  " 

Smuggle-erie's  face  never  changed  at  the  mention 
of  what  would  have  roused  many  a  man's  blood.  He 
had  never  known  his  father,  or  his  mother.  Some- 
times he  wondered  idly  if  it  was  really  a  convenience 
to  have  parents ;  but  never  having  known  or  dreamed 
of  any  tie  that  would  not  have  brought  hated  re- 
straint with  it,  he  had  long  ceased  to  trouble  himself 
as  to  the  ethics  of  the  business. 

"  It  was  kind  of  you  to  take  care  of  me  in  my  in- 
fant years,  nunky,"  said  he,  standing  back  to  see  how 
the  scarf  looked. 

"  Kindness ! "  whined  Old  Scryme.  "  It  was 
charity — charity  !  " 

"  Aye,  aye !  "  said  Smuggle-erie,  helping  himself  to 
a  pocketful  of  tobacco  plugs ;  "  as  Grogblossom  would 
[53] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

say,  '  Charity  suffereth  long  and  is  kind.'  By-by, 
nunky !  I'm  off  to  see  Grizel,  and  if  the  breeze  is  in 
the  right  quarter,  there's  going  to  be  a  wedding  in 
Morag,  and  then  nunky  is  going  to  do  the  handsome 
by  his  little  nephew — eh,  nunky  ?  "  And  the  dis- 
respectful young  rascal  poked  Old  Scryme  in  the  ribs 
in  a  way  that  nearly  made  the  miser  faint. 

"  Easy,  lad !  Easy !  "  he  screamed,  for  if  there  was 
one  human  trait  about  Giles  Scrymegeour  it  was  that 
he  was  ticklish.  But  he  turned  his  hysteria  to  ac- 
count, for  he  suddenly  said  confidingly  to  his  ward : 

"  Aye,  aye,  lad — aye,  aye !  I  have  nae  word  to  say 
agin'  the  lass.  She's  a  right  sens'ble  girl — an' 
thrifty,  sir — thrifty !  If  ye  marry  her,  Dickie,  lad, 

I'd '  He  stopped  before  he  committed  himself  to 

a  promise.  "  There's  nae  sayin',  lad,  but  Uncle  Giles 
might  come  doon  handsome.  Imphm !  "  And  the  old 
rogue  grinned  and  poked  Smuggle-erie  in  the  ribs. 

"  Nunky's  very  kind,"  said  Smuggle-erie  in  his 
inimitable  way.  "  Very  thoughtful,  too,  is  nunky. 
Once  Smuggle-erie  was  married  to  Grizel,  it  would  be 
a  family  affair,  in  a  manner  of  speaking — hey?  " 
And  with  another  pass  at  Old  Scryme's  ribs  he 
marched  out,  leaving  his  "  uncle  "  fuming  with  sudden 
rage  to  think  that  his  little  scheme  to  tighten  his  grip 
on  Captain  John  Grant  was  so  patent  to  the  shrewd 
Smuggle-erie. 

That  young  disrespecter  of  persons  sallied  along 
[54] 


Grant's  Confession 

the  village  street,  with  the  looted  kerchief  fluttering 
in  the  breeze.  Everybody  had  a  word  for  him,  espe- 
cially the  lasses,  most  of  whom  would  have  given  a  lot 
for  Smuggle-erie's  eye.  But  Smuggle-erie's  pole-star 
was  further  out  of  the  village,  in  a  little  cottage  set 
in  the  middle  of  a  kail-yard.  There  was  a  flagstaff  a 
few  yards  from  the  front  door,  and  at  the  base  of  it, 
on  a  rude  circular  bench,  sat  Grizel. 

"  What,  ho !  Sweetheart !  "  he  hailed.  "  Catch !  " 
And  he  tossed  an  apple  over  the  gate  to  her.  Out 
went  her  hands.  The  apple  slipped  through  them 
and  landed  in  her  lap. 

"  Miss !  "  he  cried.  "  What  ever  would  a  lass  do 
without  skirts?"  And  he  gathered  her  up  in  his 
arms  and  gave  her  the  quick  peck  on  the  cheek  of  a 
lover  who  is  not  very  deeply  involved. 

"  Have  another  apple,  lass.  Stolen  apples  always 
sweeter,  ye  ken.  Grizel,  if  you  say  the  word,  I'm 
ready  to  marry  you." 

"  Oh,  yes?  "  was  all  she  said. 

What  could  she  say?  Not  that  she  had  any  great 
objection  to  marrying  Smuggle-erie,  but,  to  a  girl, 
marrying  is  one  of  the  great  things  in  life,  and  any 
girl  is  justified  in  feeling  disappointment  that  the 
matter  should  be  broached  and  dismissed  in  the  toss  of 
an  apple. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  marry  me  ?  "  he  asked,  produc- 
ing an  apple  for  himself. 

[55] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  I'm  no  in  the  least  particular,"  said  she.  "  And 
as  long  as  a  girl  feels  that  way,  I'm  thinkin'  there's 
no  great  hurry,  Smuggle-erie." 

There  was  a  little  tinge  of  bitterness  in  her  tone, 
and  her  lover  was  quick  to  notice  it.  He  turned  and 
looked  straight  into  her  face — into  her  brown  eyes. 
Before  his  keen,  burning  gaze,  something  akin  to 
hero-worship  swept  through  her  veins.  There  was 
none  like  Smuggle-erie  in  Morag.  He  was  the  prize. 
Besides,  he  was  a  sailor,  and  handsome,  and  strong, 
and  he  carried  all  his  matters,  even  his  love-making, 
with  such  cool  confidence  that  it  was  difficult  not  to 
go  with  the  rush  of  him. 

"  Come,  lass,  ye  love  me,  don't  you  ?  "  as  if  such 
a  doubt  were  hardly  worthy  of  discussion. 

"  Oh,  yes — of  course,"  was  the  quiet  response. 

"  Maybe  ye  like  somebody  better.  Who  could  it 
be,  now?  "  he  said,  addressing  an  invisible  third  per- 
son. "  There  isn't  a  better  man  for  my  age  in  the 
parish.  If  you  think  so,  show  him  to  me,  Grizel,  and 
him  and  me  will  have  it  out  oursel's.  Maybe  it's  the 
young  adm'ral  wi'  the  brass  buttons." 

"  That  it  is  not,"  said  Grizel  with  a  laugh. 
"  Grizel  Grant's  not  for  the  likes  of  him." 

"Oho!  That's  it,  eh?  Brass  buttons !"  Smug- 
gle-erie mocked.  "  Grizel  Grant's  not  for  the  likes  of 
him?  Then  she's  not  for  the  likes  o'  me,  for  I'm  as 
good  a  man." 

[56] 


There  was  a  little  fling  of  anger  in  his  tone.  She 
put  her  hand  upon  his  head  and  crumpled  his  curling, 
fair  hair. 

"  Dear  old  Smuggle-erie !  Of  course,  I'll  marry 
you — when  it's  time.  But  you  mustn't  be  jealous  like 
that." 

"  Me  jealous!  "  he  protested. 

"  Why,  you  are !  "  said  she.  "  But  I'm  not  such  a 
fool  as  some  lasses  to  give  my  heart  to  a  man  because 
he  wears  brass  buttons  and  gold  lace.  But,  Smuggle- 
erie,  it's  natural,  is  it  no,  for  a  lass  to  like  it  ?  "  As 
she  was  speaking,  Smuggle-erie  was  quite  unconscious 
of  the  fine  silk  kerchief  which  he  had  been  at  such 
pains  to  tie  around  his  neck. 

"  All  right,  lass ! "  he  cried,  tossing  his  head  and 
dismissing  the  passing  cloud  at  will.  "  Give  us  a 
kiss." 

He  flung  his  arm  round  her  neck  in  true  sailor 
fashion,  and  planted  a  kiss  on  her  cheek  with  a  loud 
smack. 

"  Smuggle-erie ! "  cried  a  deep  voice  from  the  cot- 
tage. 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir!  "  replied  the  lover,  jumping  to  his 
feet. 

Captain  John  Grant  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the 
cottage.  His  eyes  were  heavy,  his  face  pale,  and 
his  brow  lowering.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  he  had 
passed  a  sleepless  night.  He  beckoned  Smuggle- 

[57] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

erie  with  a  toss  of  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder,  and 
said: 

"  Grizel,  haven't  you  a  bit  to  do  this  morning?  " 

The  captain  led  Smuggle-erie  into  the  parlor  of  the 
cottage,  locked  the  door,  and  walked  to  the  window 
with  the  remark: 

"  This  is  not  the  time  for  that  sort  of  fooling,  lad." 

Smuggle-erie  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  sat  down 
in  a  chair  by  the  fireless  hearth,  for  it  was  still  warm 
weather. 

He  gave  the  captain  a  curious  glance  as  he  noticed 
that  Grant  was  staring  through  the  window  with  his 
hands  behind  his  back. 

"Aye,  aye,  sir?"  he  suggested,  after  a  long 
silence. 

"  See  here,  lad,"  said  Grant,  turning  around  sud- 
denly and  beginning  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room, 
"  I'm  glad  you've  come  up  this  morning.  I  was  want- 
ing to  have  a  talk  with  someone — yourself  for  choice. 

"  I've  known  you  twenty  years,  lad.  Twelve  years 
ago  that  mistake  o'  nature,  called  Giles  Scrymegeour, 
would  ha'  drowned  you  like  a  blind  kitten  ower  the 
Bull  Rock,  if  I  hadn't  had  a  word  to  say.  Ye  needn't 
thank  me  for  that.  It  might  ha'  been  as  well  for  you 
if  I'd  let  him  have  his  way." 

The  man  stopped  short  in  his  sea-watch  tread  and 
rapped  his  knuckles  on  the  table  in  the  gesture  so 
characteristic  of  him  when  strongly  moved. 
[58] 


Grant's  Confession 

"  Smuggle-erie,  I'm  sick  of  it !  Ashamed  of  it !  I 
looked  through  the  window  a  minute  ago  and  saw  you 
and  that  poor  lass  on  the  bench,  and  I  was  more 
ashamed  of  it  than  ever.  Not  that  it  is  my  mind, 
Smuggle-erie,  that  you  should  marry  my  lass,  Grizel. 
I  do  not  say  '  aye '  or  *  no  '  to  that,  for  there  is  no 
time  for  it  now.  You're  as  good  a  lad  as  any  I  know, 
and  a  great  deal  better  than  most,  but " 

He  stopped,  confused.  He  had  lost  the  drift  of 
his  words  in  his  agitation  and  eagerness  to  get  them 
out. 

"  Smuggle-erie,  I'll  tell  ye  something,"  he  began 
again,  his  voice  deep  with  the  thing  that  was  grip- 
ping at  his  heart.  "  Ye  mind  one  night  last  week  in 
the  channel,  I  threw  Grogblossom  down  the  com- 
panion? (It's  all  right  now.  I  gave  him  a  pound 
of  tobacco).  But  no  doubt  you  wondered  at  it.  I 
am  a  hard  man,  but  not  a  violent  one.  Twelve  years 
ago  on  that  very  night  I  saved  your  neck,  lad,  in  the 
lodge  by  the  Laird's  gate,  and  half  an  hour  later, 
lad,  I  held  my  ain  lass's  hand,  my  wife,  Smuggle-erie 
— and 

"  I  can't  tell  it  to  ye,  lad.  I'd  make  a  bairn  o' 
myself.  But  while  I  don't  say  it  killed  her,  it  helped, 
it  helped ! " 

Smuggle-erie  shifted  uneasily  in  his  seat.  Grant 
walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  The  landscape 
was  bright  with  the  autumn  sunshine,  yet  he  saw 

[59] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

nothing  but  a  blur.  He  began  to  speak  without 
turning  his  head.  His  voice  was  quiet,  but  there  were 
pauses  in  his  speech. 

"  After  she  died,  I  went  bad.  Before  that  I  had 
pursued  the  business  as  an  honest  man,  for  nothing 
could  teach  me — convince  me — that  a  government 
had  a  right  to  tax  a  people  for  its  food,  its  drink,  its 
clothing.  But  after  she  died,  I  went  at  it  like  a  mad- 
man. I  loved  the  very  worst  of  it.  It  helped  me 
forget.  Our  very  name  was  a  terror,  for  the  daring 
of  what  we  did  at  times. 

"  I  hadn't  meant  to  tell  you  this,  lad — I  mean,  all 
this.  But  it's  too  big  a  thing  to  let  out  in  driblets. 
It's  like  a  leak,  lad — Tut !  What  am  I  saying? 

"  Three  years  ago  that  lass  was  playing  on  the 
doorstep — just  playing.  I  don't  know  what  it  was — 
maybe  the  way  she  tossed  her  hair  back,  or  something 
— but  it's  been  like  a  nightmare  ever  since.  I'm  not 
a  religious  man — Heaven  forgive  me  for  even  speak- 
ing of  it — but  it's  a  weight  on  my  soul,  black  as  that 
soul  is,  and — I've  determined  to  end  it." 

"  You  mean,  you'll  retire  ?  "  suggested  Smuggle- 
erie. 

"  It's  a  mild  way  to  put  it,"  sneered  Grant.  "  I 
mean  that  the  Thistle  Down  will  not  leave  port  again 
with  John  Grant  as  master.  The  fear  of  death  is  on 
me,  man — not  the  physical  fear — but  the  horror,  the 
shame  of  my  girl's  eyes.  I  saw  it  last  night.  Some- 
[60] 


Grant's  Confession 

thing  happened  on  the  schooner.  You  know  what. 
The  strain  would  have  melted  iron,  and  I  cried  out 
in  my  agony.  Her  hand  was  on  my  arm,  lad.  And 
when  I  cried  out,  she  looked  at  me — and  I  saw  what 
I  swear  I  will  not  see  in  her  eyes  again  for  all  the 
world." 

Smuggle-erie  started  up,  roused  by  the  man's 
vehemence.  He  looked  at  the  white,  drawn  face  of 
the  giant  before  him  and  wondered. 

"  Captain,"  he  said,  "  you've  played  the  game  too 
long.  Take  a  rest.  I'll  take  the  ship  out  Sunday 
week  if  the  stuff's  ready.  You  know  me." 

"  I  know  you,  lad,"  said  Captain  Grant,  a  quaver 
of  regret  in  his  voice.  "  I'd  trust  you  to  the  last 
card.  But  I've  spoken  the  word.  The  Thistle  Down 
has  made  her  last  trip  under  me  and  mine.  As  for 
you,  y'are  a  free  man,  but  if  you  engage  again  in  the 
contraband,  independent  of  me — "  he  lightly  rapped 
the  table  with  his  knuckles — "  you  are  no  man  for  my 
lass." 

Smuggle-erie  made  no  response.  It  is  probable 
that  the  whole  thing  was  beyond  his  complete  under- 
standing. He  could  understand,  in  a  measure,  the 
man's  sorrow  over  the  loss  of  his  wife;  he  could,  too, 
understand  his  fear  of  Grizel's  scorn;  but  what  he 
failed  to  grasp  in  any  degree  was  why  the  smuggling 
exploits  should  have  killed  his  wife ;  why  they  should 
arouse  Grizel's  scorn;  why,  in  short,  there  was 
[61] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

anything  to  be  ashamed  of  at  all  in  cheating  his 
majesty's  revenue.  Was  not  his  majesty's  revenue 
an  institution  which  it  was  every  man's  duty  to 
cheat  ? 

But  one  thing  Smuggle-erie  was  shrewd  enough  to 
see  at  once.  Grant's  nerve  had  failed.  Whether  the 
skipper  feared  for  himself,  or  for  the  lass,  Smug- 
gle-erie did  not  trouble  to  think;  he  only  saw  as 
clearly  as  daylight  that  the  coming  of  the  naval 
lieutenant  and  his  men  to  reenforce  Horneycraft  and 
the  regular  coast-guard,  was  the  finishing  touch  to 
the  man's  remorse. 

Grant  was  distrustful  of  Scrymegeour,  too,  and 
well  he  might  be.  They  were  safe  as  long  as  they 
kept  their  mouths  shut  and  their  nerves  taut,  but  let 
one  of  their  number  show  the  white  feather  at  the 
first  shot,  and  the  whole  gang  was  in  peril. 

"  It  certainly  was  a  tight  squeeze,"  said  Smuggle- 
erie  with  a  shrug.  "  We  could  hear  their  breathing, 
and  they  could  have  heard  ours  if  we  hadn't  held  it. 
But  a  miss  is  as  good  as  a  mile." 

"  But  after  last  night,  do  you  think  they  will  let  us 
rest?  "  asked  Grant  sharply.  "  Not  if  I  know  the 
revenue,  or  judge  a  young  officer  who  has  a  reputa- 
tion to  make.  If  it  was  Cookson  or  any  old-timer 
who  is  all  talk  and  no  active  zeal,  I  would  snap  my 
fingers,  but  unless  I'm  a  fool,  that  young  officer  is 
grubbing  around  the  rock  at  this  minute,  and  he  will 
[62] 


Grant's  Confession 

keep  on  grubbing  until  he  finds  out  what  has  become 
of  that  boat." 

"  You're  a  good  guesser,"  said  Smuggle-erie,  smil- 
ing. "  He  went  exploring  this  morning  in  old  Jack 
Cookson's  skiff." 

The  announcement  had  a  bad  effect  upon  Grant. 
He  gripped  the  edge  of  the  table  and  stared  at  the 
young  sailor. 

"  So — already  !  "  he  almost  groaned.  "  You  saw 
him?" 

"  He'll  find  nothing,"  said  Smuggle-erie  assur- 
ingly.  "  It  is  full  tide.  Now,  if  he'd  taken  a  lamp 
last  night — he  might  have  seen  wonders." 

The  captain  sighed  his  relief  and  went  back  to  the 
window. 

"  Come  to  think  of  it,  though,"  added  Smuggle- 
erie,  "  I  think  I'll  go  and  clear  the  coast." 

"  Do,  man — do !  "  Grant  pleaded.  "  There  must 
not  be  a  sign — not  a  sign." 

Smuggle-erie  arose  and  prepared  to  go.  As  he 
passed  through  the  parlor  door,  he  glanced  back  at 
Captain  John  Grant.  The  big  sea-master  was  again 
staring  out  of  the  window,  and  the  younger  man 
thought  he  heard  him  saying,  half  to  himself : 

"  So !  They  could  hear  them  breathing — hear 
them  breathing !  " 


[63] 


CHAPTER  V 

WHIRLED    INTO    THE    UNKNOWN 

WHEN  Lieutenant  Ben  Larkin,  rowing  across  the 
bay  in  Cookson's  skiff,  passed  Smuggle-erie,  as  the 
young  sailor  was  rowing  ashore,  he  felt  amused  at 
their  passage  of  words,  but  more  amused  at  Smuggle- 
erie's  gay  attire.  Whatever  position  toward  each 
other  fate  had  decreed  for  them,  the  lieutenant  would 
have  been  willing  to  admit  that  he,  at  least,  bore  no 
ill-feeling  toward  his  opponent.  He  wondered  what 
Smuggle-erie  meant  by  "  good  flounder-spearing." 
It  was  sarcasm,  of  course,  for  Smuggle-erie  must 
know  where  the  skiff  was  bound  for. 

Larkin,  on  his  side,  did  not  need  to  be  told  Smug- 
gle-erie's  destination.  The  jaunty  angle  of  the  sailor 
cap  and  the  gayety  of  the  fluttering  kerchief,  con- 
jured before  the  lieutenant's  mind  the  face  of  Grizel, 
a  young  lady  in  whom  Larkin  himself  felt  a  growing 
interest,  not  altogether  unalloyed  with  suspicion. 

For  himself,  he  adopted  no  subterfuge,  but  rowed 

toward  that  point  of  the  Bull  Rock  where  he  had  last 

seen  the  smugglers'  craft.     This  was  on  the  side  of 

the  rock  farthest  from  Morag  village.     The  height 

[64] 


Whirled  into  the  Unknown 

of  the  Bull  Rock  itself  and  the  landward  cliffs  ob- 
structed all  but  a  very  small  view  of  the  passage  at 
either  end. 

At  that  time,  indeed,  Ben  Larkin  was  not  sure  that 
the  rock  was  an  island.  From  such  inquiries  as  he 
had  had  time  to  make  since  his  interest  was  aroused  in 
the  matter,  he  had  learned  only  that  no  boats  ever 
went  there.  It  was  too  dangerous  at  low  tide,  and  at 
high  tide  the  water  barely  covered  the  reefs. 

Besides  that,  it  was  an  uncanny  place.  There  was 
the  legend  of  the  black  bull,  of  course,  and  not  long 
before  a  boy  had  been  drowned  there  and  his  body 
had  never  floated  ashore.  Between  the  reefs  in  the 
narrow  passage,  the  water  sank  to  a  great  depth, 
and  if  it  so  happened  that  a  storm  rose  when  the 
tide  was  half-full,  the  people  of  Morag  could  hear 
the  water  booming  as  it  was  forced  into  these  rock- 
pots,  and  see  it  spout  high  in  the  air  as  the  pressure 
was  relieved. 

As  Ben  Larkin  shipped  one  of  his  oars  and  pre- 
pared to  paddle  with  the  other,  the  evil  name  of  the 
place  seemed  a  libel  for  once.  There  was  an  enchant- 
ment about  the  majestic,  silent  gray  walls,  with  their 
ancient,  gray  sheathing  of  barnacles ;  the  darker  islet 
rock  with  its  smooth,  slippery,  water-worn  sides, 
draped  with  slimy  tresses  of  sea-grass;  and  between 
them  the  smooth,  dark  winding  lane  of  still  water. 

The  lieutenant  drew  a  deep  breath  of  admiration, 
[65] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

and  stood  up  in  the  boat  with  his  dripping  oar-blade 
raised  above  the  water.  For  a  moment  he  was  part 
of  the  picture.  It  seemed  a  desecration  to  b.eak  the 
silence  of  this  sea-temple,  or  to  ruffle  its  carpet  of 
still  waters.  He  dropped  on  his  knees  and  rested  his 
chin  on  the  gunwale  of  the  skiff.  Only  a  few  inches 
below  the  surface,  the  fangs  of  the  reefs  protruded 
from  either  side  of  the  passage,  like  the  green  teeth 
of  a  giant  about  to  close.  Between  them  one  could 
look  down  through  fathoms  into  the  dim  sea-light  of 
mystic  depths. 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  irritation  at  worldly  affairs 
that  he  finally  recalled  the  business  on  hand.  He 
took  up  his  oar  and  paddled  into  the  inner  recesses  of 
the  waterway.  He  passed  right  through  and  came 
out  at  the  northern  end,  without  having  seen  any- 
thing to  explain  the  mystery  of  the  vanishing  smug- 
glers. True;  it  was  possible  that,  even  as  he  had 
navigated  the  entire  length  of  the  passage,  so  might 
the  smuggler  craft  have  done.  But  this  was  not 
probable,  for  the  vanished  boat,  in  that  case,  must 
have  landed  between  the  rock  and  Morag.  This  ruse 
could  hardly  have  escaped  the  detecting  eyes  of 
Horneycraft,  even  if  the  score  of  other  onlookers  had 
seen  and  kept  silent. 

Larkin  was  satisfied  that  the  trick — whatever  its 
nature — had  been  played  between  the  end  of  the  pas- 
sage at  which  he  had  entered  and  the  one  at  which  he 
[66] 


Whirled  into  the  Unknown 

now  made  his  exit.  He  retraced  his  course  through 
the  passage,  pausing  every  few  strokes  of  the  paddle 
to  examine  thoroughly  the  rocks  on  either  side,  above 
and  below  the  water. 

He  reflected  that  it  was  now  high  tide  and  that 
some  inlet  which  had  escaped  observation  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  previous  night  might  now  be  submerged. 
But  against  this  idea  was  another.  If  there  was 
aught  in  the  nature  of  a  cave  which  had  swallowed  up 
the  smugglers,  it  seemed  certain  that  it  must  be 
flooded.  To  be  sure,  the  incident  of  last  night  had 
occurred  at  a  lower  tide.  As  he  gazed  over  the  side 
he  wondered  if,  on  her  previous  arrivals,  it  had  been 
the  habit  of  the  Thistle  Down  to  drop  anchor  at  low 
tide. 

Toward  the  center  of  the  waterway,  Larkin  noticed 
that  the  depth  increased  and,  also,  that  at  this  point 
the  tooth-like  rows  of  reef  were  absent.  In  fact,  the 
sea  here  receded  under  the  landward  cliff  in  a  manner 
suggesting  that  undermining  which,  among  the  rug- 
ged formations  of  the  west  coast  of  Scotland,  has 
produced  so  many  sea-caves.  It  was  barely  possible 
that  at  low  tide  there  might  be  ingress  to  some 
hiding-place  here.  But  to  make  the  idea  worthy  of 
entertainment,  it  was  necessary  also  to  grant  that 
there  was  egress  from  the  cave  at  the  other  end,  unless 
the  smugglers'  lair  was,  like  the  sea-monsters',  in  some 
black  grotto  containing  a  vast  bubble  of  air. 
[67] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

The  weird  thought  fascinated  Larkin.  He  shipped 
his  oar  and  gazed  long  and  keenly  into  the  gray- 
green  depths.  There  were  black  shadows  there  which 
might  be  breaks  in  the  rock,  or  merely  the  surface  of 
the  rock  itself,  gloomed  by  the  very  distance  from  the 
surface. 

Then  Larkin's  heart  began  to  beat  rapidly.  It 
was  not  so  much  on  account  of  what  he  saw,  although 
the  sea-tresses  below  the  surface  and  the  water  itself 
suddenly  began  to  dance  under  some  strange  influ- 
ence! But  to  his  ears,  from  some  vague  direction, 
came  a  familiar  sound — the  first  bars  of  that  quaint 
Scotch  song  which  Grogblossom  had  whistled: 

"  Pease  brose  again,  mither,  pease  brose  again! " 

Then  there  was  a  momentary  silence.  Larkin's 
hand  gripped  the  edge  of  the  skiff  and  he  glared  into 
the  depths  of  the  sea,  for,  to  his  puzzled  mind,  it 
actually  seemed  as  if  the  sound  was  coming  up 
through  the  water.  His  heart  almost  stood  still  as  he- 
waited  for  the  response  which  he  felt  ought  to  come. 
It  came — fainter  than  the  first  notes — more  distant 
— more  ghostly: 

"  Ye  feed  me  like  a  blackbird,  and  me  yer  only  wean!  " 

Larkin  felt  his  hair  tingle  and  his   spine   creep. 
With   the  whistling,   the   agitation   of   the    sea    in- 
[68] 


Whirled  into  the  Unknown 

creased.  The  surface  began  to  hiss  and  twist  and 
foam  all  around  him,  and  all  at  once  the  skiff  spun 
around  like  a  top. 

Larkin  sprang  to  the  oars  with  a  cry;  but  oars 
were  useless  in  that  seething  caldron  of  water. 
Spinning,  rocking,  and  plunging,  the  skiff  shot  now 
a  few  yards  in  this  direction;  then,  encountering  an- 
other current,  it  was  flung  back  with  a  crash  of  water. 
The  lieutenant,  while  he  had  little  time  to  think,  was 
yet  conscious  that  he  was  in  some  sort  of  tidal  trap. 

He  could  do  nothing  now  but  trust  to  luck  and 
keep  his  eyes  and  wits  clear.  He  sat  exactly  in  the 
middle  of  his  seat,  and  with  his  hands  gripping  either 
side  of  the  narrow  skiff,  strove  to  keep  the  balance. 
But  it  was  in  vain.  The  water  seemed  to  sink,  but 
so  suddenly  that,  to  the  dazzled  eye,  it  was  as  if  the 
great  tooth-like  reefs  rose  out  of  the  water  to  close 
upon  the  little  craft. 

At  the  first  grinding  crunch  of  the  boat's  side  up- 
on the  rocks,  Ben  Larkin  knew  that  it  was  no  use  de- 
pending longer  upon  Jack  Cookson's  skiff.  The  turbu- 
lent waters,  flinging  the  boat  upon  a  reef  and  as 
swiftly  drawing  away,  left  her  a  deadweight,  sliding 
and  falling  backward  into  the  caldron.  The  lieu- 
tenant, with  less  of  a  prayer  than  a  determination  to 
do  his  best  and  die  hard,  flung  himself  headlong  into 
the  windless  storm. 

Down  he  went,  with  the  water  bubbling  white  and 
[69] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

cool  around  his  face.  He  struck  out  in  the  blinding 
foam,  expecting  every  moment  to  reach  the  surface. 
There  presently  came  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  which  was 
eclipsed  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  it ;  then  he  found  him- 
self once  more  among  the  snow-like  foam,  beating 
thin  bubbles  with  his  hands  and  choking  for  air. 

Once,  twice,  he  saw  the  light  of  day.  Then  again 
he  was  below.  What  did  this  mean?  He  was  an  ex- 
pert swimmer,  yet  he  could  not  keep  above  water,  It 
was  as  if  a  giant  had  reached  up  from  the  sea-depths 
and  was  beating  him  about  like  a  ball,  flinging  him 
into  the  sunlight  and  dragging  him  headlong  to  the 
depths  again.  Once  more  the  sunlight  flashed  in  his 
eyes.  He  opened  his  mouth  to  draw  breath  and  next 
moment,  with  his  lungs  bursting  with  salt,  stinging 
water,  he  was  whirling  under  the  sea,  this  time  in  the 
green  bottom-currents. 

This  was  the  end !  The  thought  flashed  across  his 
mind,  as  he  was  relentlessly  flung  around  like  a  dead 
weed.  He  became  possessed  with  a  wonderful  calm. 
He  was  almost  glad  that  death  should  be  by  drown- 
ing. Presently  he  would  be  one  with  that  under- 
world over  which  he  had  but  recently  dreamed.  He 
felt  the  soft  wrack  brush  across  his  face. 

Then  came  a  dull  shock  through  his  lungs  and  he 

opened  his  eyes,  as  he  firmly  believed,  for  the  last 

time.     Away  over  him  was  the  gay-green  light  of 

God's  sunny  world,  and  below  him  was  the  dim  temple 

[70] 


Whirled  into  the  Unknown 

of  God's  great  sea,  out  of  which  there  suddenly  shot, 
coming  up  to  meet  him,  a  long,  slender  body,  sur- 
mounted by  the  face  of  Smuggle-erie ! 

With  a  sense  of  sudden  marvel,  Ben  Larkin  drifted 
into  the  eternity  of  nothingness. 


[71] 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   MAN'S   A   MAN    FOE    A*    THAT 

THESE  events,  mysterious  though  they  appear,  are 
narrated  exactly  as  they  happened  and  in  the  order 
of  happening,  and,  like  most  mysterious  things,  are 
susceptible  of  ready  and  natural  explanation.  There 
was  nothing  of  the  supernatural,  as  the  unlucky  Lar- 
kin  supposed,  in  the  ghostly  whistle,  the  sudden  con- 
vulsion of  the  waters,  and  the  submarine  appearance 
of  Smuggle-erie. 

When  the  latter  left  Captain  John  Grant's  house, 
the  uneasiness  which  had  determined  him  to  clear  the 
tracks  of  the  smugglers  waxed  stronger  as  he  walked 
away  toward  the  Bull  Rock,  thinking  over  all  that 
the  skipper  had  to  say. 

His  uneasiness  was  not  wholly  due  to  fear  of  the 
revenue-officers.  The  worm  of  physical  fear  had  not 
yet  learned  to  turn  in  Smuggle-erie's  heart,  or  con- 
science. But  something — he  hardly  knew  what — had 
stung  the  lad's  vanity.  He  was  vaguely  conscious 
that  he  had  gone  to  Grant's  cottage  with  a  half-seri- 
ous intention  of  arranging  a  wedding.  Somehow,  his 
half-serious  intention  had  gone  seriously  wrong,  and 
[72] 


A  Man's  a  Man  for  a*  That 

his  heathen  manhood  rebelled.  His  anger  rose  when 
the  wind,  suddenly  filliping  the  silk  kerchief  in  his 
face,  reminded  him  of  the  rest  of  his  gala  attire,  and 
for  what  purpose  he  had  worn  it. 

Without  fully  realizing  it  himself,  Smuggle-erie 
was  suffering  the  childish  pang  of  a  first  disappoint- 
ment. Grizel}  he  suddenly  felt,  was  a  very  different 
person  to  what  she  had  been  an  hour  before.  She 
was  further  removed  from  him,  both  in  fact  and 
fancy.  The  sailor's  all-embracing  love  of  the  petti- 
coat had  become  metamorphosed  all  at  once  into  a 
strange  respect  for  the  mysteries  of  the  business. 
His  mind,  so  untutored  in  the  delicacy  of  love,  floun- 
dered aimlessly  around  two  facts — that  Grant  had 
practically  negatived  his  wedding  plan,  and  that 
Grizel  herself  had  not  seemed  very  enthusiastic  about 
it. 

He  went  back  in  his  mind  over  every  word  of  their 
brief  conversation  under  the  flagstaff.  He  wondered 
where  he  could  have  gained  the  effrontery  to  talk 
about  marrying  her  at  all.  He  wondered,  indeed, 
how  he  had  ever  had  the  courage  to  kiss  her  as  if  she 
was  a  pet  kitten,  and  love  a  bobbin  on  a  string.  The 
blood  of  shame  flooded  Smuggle-erie's  face  and  neck, 
which  had  never  before  changed  color  to  anything  but 
the  sun  and  the  sea. 

Whether  he  realized  it  or  not,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  Smuggle-erie  was  at  last  in  love,  for  every 
[73] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

time  his  mind  turned  upon  Lieutenant  Ben  Larkin,  it 
was  suddenly  overwhelmed  with  gloom.  Why,  he  did 
not  know,  or  try  to  imagine,  but  the  jealous  eye  of 
unconscious  instinct  had  looked  out,  and  knew  how 
the  wind  blew. 

As  he  neared  the  abandoned  lodge  by  the  gate  lead- 
ing to  Morag  Castle,  Smuggle-erie  cast  off  his  heavy 
thoughts  with  characteristic  alacrity.  He  had  seri- 
ous business  on  hand,  and,  although  his  mind  oc- 
casionally reverted  to  Grizel,  it  was  keenly  alert  to 
that  immediate  business. 

He  strolled  past  the  lodge,  as  if  taking  a  morning 
walk.  His  eyes  took  in  every  detail  of  the  scenery 
and  the  road.  Then  he  stopped  and  looked  around. 
He  was  a  solitary  figure  on  that  road,  which  ran 
out  of  Morag  and  skirted  the  coast  for  miles. 

At  the  point  where  Smuggle-erie  paused,  the  sea- 
ward side  arose  in  a  steep,  ferny  bank,  ending  ab- 
ruptly at  its  highest  point,  where  there  was^a  sheer 
declivity  into  the  waterway  behind  the  Bull  Rock. 
The  precipice  extended  for  several  hundred  yards  in 
either  direction,  sinking  gradually  into  tumbled  rocks 
and  sandy  beaches.  In  heavy  weather,  the  surging 
waves  in  the  waterway  below  cast  showers  of  water 
right  over  the  cliff  into  the  road,  which  would  be 
flooded  at  times,  for  days  together. 

On  the  landward  side  of  the  road  where  Smuggle- 
erie  was  standing  was  the  old  crumbled  gate  of  Laird 
[74] 


A  Man's  a  Man  for  a3  That 

Halliday's  grounds  and,  beside  it,  the  ruined  lodge. 
From  this,  it  may  be  judged  that  the  Laird's  estate 
was  not  in  the  best  of  order.  It  was,  in  fact,  in  a 
state  of  disrepair  or  overgrowth,  which  the  Laird 
was  either  too  mean  to  observe,  or  disregarded  for 
private  and  personal  reasons.  The  castle  itself, 
strange  to  say,  was  a  fine  old  building,  and  well- 
ordered,  too. 

Smuggle-erie,  having  satisfied  himself  that  both  he 
and  the  gardener's  lodge  were  unobserved,  walked 
straight  toward  the  door  of  the  deserted  building,  at 
the  same  time  whistling,  rapidly  and  softly,  the  first 
bars  of  "  Pease  Brose  Again,  Mither,"  the  second 
line  of  which  came  like  an  echo  from  somewhere  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  ruin. 

The  young  sailor,  after  another  glance  around, 
stepped  into  the  lodge  and  sat  down  on  a  broken 
chair.  Presently  a  little  square  patch  of  the  floor 
was  slowly  raised  and  a  shock  of  red  hair  and  a  pair 
of  bloodshot,  ferret-like  eyes  appeared. 

"  Is't  yersel'  ?  "  whispered  a  voice,  with  a  quaver 
of  fright  in  it.  "  Man,  but  ye  gie'd  me  a  fright  that 
time ! " 

"  What's  frightening  you,  Red  Mole? "  said 
Smuggle-erie.  "  Is  it  your  conscience?  " 

"  Wheesht ! "  said  the  Red  Mole,  looking  strangely 
like  his  sobriquet  as  he  peered  out  of  the  dark,  under- 
ground cellar.     "  Ye're  that  reckless,  man." 
[75] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Heave  up  that  hatch,  m'lad.  There's  a  king's 
gentleman  spearin'  flounder  in  the  waterway." 

"  What's  that  ye  say  ?  "  gasped  the  Red  Mole, 
flinging  up  the  trap-door  and  cowering  back  into  the 
gloom  of  the  hole  which  was  revealed.  "  A  king's 
man,  an'  you  whistlin'  oot  there  like  a  mavy.  Come 
awa'  doon,  man,  an'  shut  the  hatch — shut  the  hatch !  " 

"Ye  old  rat ! "  Smuggle-erie  said,  with  smiling 
scorn.  "  Drop  a  pin  an'  ye  scurry  into  your  hole. 
But  mind  the  ferret,  man,  the  blue  ferret  wi'  the  gold 
breast.  He  hunts  rats,  moles,  weasels,  and  smu " 

The  trap-door  closed  gently  over  Smuggle-erie's 
head,  and  there  was  silence  in  the  haunted  lodge. 

Down  below,  Smuggle-erie  squatted  on  a  case  of 
wine  and  surveyed  the  Red  Mole's  quarters,  which 
were  filled  with  miscellaneous  merchandise  of  a  con- 
traband nature. 

"  Making  yourself  happy,  I  see,"  Smuggle-erie 
said  with  a  nod  toward  a  barrel,  upon  which  rested  a 
bottle  and  a  horn  cup  beside  a  lighted  tallow-dip. 

"  Aye,  man,"  whispered  the  Red  Mole,  as  if  an 
excuse  was  asked  for.  "  It's  the  damp,  ye  ken — 
drip! — drip! — drip  a'  the  while,  an'  dribblin'  doon 
the  wa's,  an'  the  sea  washin' — washin'  a'  the  time.  It 
makes  a  man  feel  cauld." 

In  the  old  days  the  place  in  which  Smuggle-erie 
and  the  Red  Mole  sat  had  played  many  a  part  in  clan 
and  border  warfare.  At  one  time  it  had  been  used 
[76] 


A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That 

as  a  sea-escape  from  the  castle,  but  time  and  the  un- 
dermining of  the  waters  had  caused  a  collapse  of  the 
greater  part  of  the  passage.  The  sea-end,  however, 
was  still  clear  and  presented  a  weird  aspect  at  that 
moment.  The  tide  was  full,  and  the  sea,  covering 
the  mouth  of  the  cave,  flooded  to  its  own  level  inside. 
The  floor  of  the  rock  lair  slanted  downward  into  a 
long  black  pool,  in  the  bosom  of  which  the  waters 
brightened  into  the  green  of  daylit  water.  From  the 
blackness  of  the  inner  cave  one  could  sit  and  watch 
the  fish  coming  to  the  mouth,  swimming  slowly  in  a 
short  distance,  then  whisking  out  again  as  if  in  dis- 
trust of  the  candle-eyed  monster  that  dwelt  in  that 
underground  gloom. 

"  Ye'll  hae  a  dram  yerself  ?  "  the  Red  Mole  sug- 
gested. 

Smuggle-erie  looked  at  the  fiery-headed,  red-eyed 
animal  before  him  and  refused  with  a  gesture  of  dis- 
gust. 

"  It's  guid  whusky ! "  protested  the  Red  Mole, 
holding  up  the  bottle  with  a  shaky  hand,  ready  to 
pour  the  dram. 

"  And  cheap,"  said  Smuggle-erie.  "  But  a  look 
at  you's  enough  to  turn  any  man  from  the  stuff." 

The  danger  signal  of  a  drunkard's  nervous  ferocity 
flashed  in  the  Red  Mole's  eyes. 

"  Let — me — be!  "  he  suddenly  yelled. 

"  There  it  is,  ye  see,"  observed  Smuggle-erie  coolly. 
[77] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  You're  about  as  safe  as  a  loaded  gun  in  a  hot  oven. 
Sit  down,  ye  fool,  and  listen  to  me.  Keep  your 
temper  for  them  that's  afraid  o'  ye ! " 

The  Red  Mole  glared  at  him  for  a  moment,  his 
hands  twitching  and  his  yellow  teeth  flashing  over  his 
dry  lips ;  then  he  sat  down,  pale  and  trembling,  under 
the  force  of  the  superior  brain. 

"  Can  ye  no  mind  yer  ain  beez'ness?  "  he  grumbled. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  Smuggle-erie.  "  If  the  Cot- 
house  stuff  is  to  get  through,  we — especially  you — 
have  to  keep  a  clear  head." 

The  Red  Mole  flashed  the  danger  signal  again,  but 
said  nothing.  Smuggle-erie  continued : 

"  This  stuff  has  to  be  cleared  out  of  here  as 
soon's  it's  dark.  There's  a  pack  of  hounds  smelling 

around Smuggle-erie  broke  off  with  a  cry — 

"What's  that?" 

He  was  staring  at  the  long,  black  pool,  where  the 
figure  of  a  man  could  be  seen  aimlessly  flinging  about 
in  the  undercurrents  at  the  mouth.  The  arms  and 
legs  of  the  figure  drooped  helplessly,  and  the  man's 
head  tumbled  limply  about  as  he  spun  in  the  water. 

"  Somebody  caught  in  the  ebb !  "  yelled  Smuggle- 
erie,  jumping  to  his  feet. 

The  Red  Mole  was  also  on  his  feet  at  the  first 
alarm.  His  face  was  stamped  with  the  dread  of  dis- 
covery, but  as  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  man  in  the 
green  circle  of  light  in  the  bosom  of  the  pool,  he 
[78] 


A  Man's  a  Man  for  a   That 

tuined  and  laid  a  restraining  hand  upon  Smuggle- 
erie,  who  was  wrestling  with  his  jacket-buttons. 

"  Let  'im  drown  !  Let  'im  drown !  "  the  Red  Mole 
whispered  tensely.  "  It's  the  revenue  officer.  Let 
'im  drown ! " 

He  clung  to  Smuggle-erie  as  he  spoke,  with  a  sort 
of  nervous  glee. 

The  young  sailor  stopped  for  a  moment  as  he 
recognized  the  figure  of  Larkin.  His  brows  con- 
tracted swiftly  and  his  lip  lowered  dourly,  but  only 
for  an  instant.  Then  he  struck  the  Red  Mole  full  in 
his  hairy  face  and  rushed  down  the  incline  of  the  cave 
with  a  yell. 

"  Revenue  or  no,  a  man's  a  man  for  a'  that !  "  and 
the  last  word  was  drowned  in  the  sullen  roar  of  his 
body  striking  the  water. 

The  pool  was  a  tossing,  foaming  caldron  for  a 
moment.  Then  Smuggle-erie  emerged,  in  a  confused 
heap,  with  the  inanimate  Larkin.  He  struggled 
wildly  toward  the  shallows. 

The  Red  Mole,  forgetting  in  that  moment  the  pain 
of  his  broken  lip  and  his  own  hatred  of  revenue  spies, 
sprang  forward  to  help.  Such  is  the  instinctive 
good  in  the  worst  of  us. 

In  a  few  minutes  Smuggle-erie  was  on  dry  rock, 
with  the  lieutenant  face  downward  at  his  feet.     The 
young  sailor  was  panting  madly,  but  the  prostrate 
figure  lay  white,  still,  and  dripping. 
[79] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Roll  him  over !  "  gasped  Smuggle-erie.  "  Roll 
him  over  again !  Stand  him  on  his  head  now — there ! 
easy,  lad.  Fegs !  I've  spoilt  my  best  togs !  "  he 
added,  with  a  short  laugh. 

"  I'm  thinkin'  he's  deid,"  whispered  the  Red  Mole 
in  a  tone  of  relief. 

"  Never  fear,"  said  Smuggle-erie.  "  He's  too 
good  a  man  for  that.  Up  wi'  that  hatch  an'  get  him 
in  the  open  air." 

"Ye're  daft!"  cried  the  Red  Mole.  "D'ye  no 
see?  " 

"  Open  that  hatch,  ye  rat !  "  commanded  Smuggle- 
erie. 

"  It's  no  fair ! "  whined  the  Red  Mole  savagely. 
"  It's  no  fair  to  me  an'  the  ithers.  D'ye  no  see  that 
ye'll  hae  t'explain  hoo  ye  got  him  oot  o'  the  tide  race ; 
an'  ye  canna  tell." 

"  An'  if  he  comes  to  in  here,  an'  sees  that  contra- 
band !  "  roared  Smuggle-erie.  "  Open  that  hatch,  ye 
black-brained  sot,  an'  get  him  out — quick !  " 

"  I  will  not ! "  said  the  Red  Mole  with  sudden  fire. 

Smuggle-erie,  who  had  been  bending  over  Larkin, 
trying  to  restore  his  breathing,  sprang  to  his  feet 
with  an  oath. 

He  saw  a  steel  blade  glint  in  the  dim  candle-light, 

but  flung  himself  recklessly  upon  the  red-haired  man. 

There  followed  a  crash,  and  both  men  rolled  on  the 

rocky  floor  of  the  cavern.     The  Red  Mole's  arm  flew 

[80] 


A  Man's  a  Man  for  a   That 

in  the  air,  but  before  the  steel  descended,  Smuggle- 
erie,  who  was  undermost,  gave  his  antagonist  a 
mighty  heave  and  the  next  moment  it  was  the  would- 
be  murderer  who  was  at  the  other's  mercy.  Smug- 
gle-erie's  fingers  clutched  the  shock  of  hair,  and  the 
cave  echoed  the  hollow  bumping  of  the  Red  Mole's 
head  on  the  rock  floor. 

"  Don't !     Don't !  "  moaned  a  voice  piteously. 

"  What  was  the  knife  for?  "  Smuggle-erie  ground 
out  through  his  teeth. 

"  Ye  dinna  understand ! "  the  Red  Mole  pleaded. 
"  It  was  no  for  ye.  It  was " 

"  Ye  mean  you  would  have  stabbed  a  half-drowned 
man !  "  Smuggle-erie  asserted.  "  I  always  thought 
it  was  in  ye.  Get  up,  ye  red-haired  Satan.  Thankee. 
I'll  tak'  the  knife.  Now,  open  that  hatch." 

The  Red  Mole,  cowed  to  submission,  scrambled  up 
the  ladder  and  let  the  diffused  light  of  the  lodge  fall 
upon  the  candle-lit  scene. 

Smuggle-erie  hoisted  the  lieutenant  up  to  the  Red 
Mole  and  then  himself  climbed  up.  Once  all  were  in 
the  lodge,  the  Red  Mole  let  down  the  trap,  and  again 
he  faced  Smuggle-erie,  his  lips  shaking  with  fear. 

"  Smuggle-erie !  "  he  pleaded.  "  Listen  to  Baldy 
Currie."  He  employed  his  real  name.  "  If  that 
man  leaves  this  place " 

Smuggle-erie  turned  on  him  savagely. 

"  Another  word  of  that,"  he  said,  "  and  I'll  may- 
[81] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

be  bury  this  knife  where  you'd  be  the  least  sur- 
prised ! " 

The  Red  Mole  fell  back. 

"  Here !  Bear  a  hand !  "  said  Smuggle-erie.  "  Up 
with  him — higher  on  the  shoulder.  No,  let  his  head 
hang.  Right!  A  little  more  to  the  front.  There! 
Now,  open  that  door,  and  you  keep  your  mouth  for 
liquor  and  leave  talk  to  them  that's  got  sense." 

With  that  parting  gift  of  words,  Smuggle-erie 
staggered  out  into  the  sunshine  with  his  rival,  Ben 
Larkin,  hanging  limp  across  his  shoulders.  He 
gained  the  road  and  swung  off  at  a  half -stride,  half- 
trot,  for  Mo  rag. 

The  first  house  that  he  came  to — that  is,  the  first 
where  comfort  and  assistance  were  available — was  the 
cottage  with  the  flagstaff.  As  he  staggered  through 
the  gate  into  the  kail-yard,  the  front  door  was 
quickly  opened  and  Grizel  rushed  to  meet  him. 

"Oh,  what  is  it?  Who  is  it?  What  has  hap- 
pened? "  she  cried. 

"  A  friend  of  yours,"  Smuggle-erie  managed  to 
gasp,  staggering  manfully  under  the  dead-weight. 
"  Come  to  stay  f 'r  a  week !  " 

She  glanced  at  the  white  face  on  Smuggle-erie's 
shoulder  and  gave  a  little  cry  of  womanly  concern. 

"  It's  the  young  lieutenant !  Oh,  the  poor  man ! 
I  must  get  a  bed  spread !  " 

Grizel  preceded  rescued  and  rescuer  into  the  cot- 
[82] 


A  Man's  a  Man  for  a'  That 

tage.       Smuggle-erie   reeled   into   the  parlor,   where 
Captain  John  Grant  sat  brooding  in  a  chair. 

The  sea-master  sprang  to  his  feet  as  the  young 
mate  dropped  his  burden  on  the  settle  by  the  empty 
hearth,  and  stared  like  a  man  suddenly  bereft  of  un- 
derstanding. 

Then  his  eyes  shot  from  the  face  of  the  uncon- 
scious man  to  Smuggle-erie. 

"  What  happened  ?  "  asked  Grant  hoarsely. 

"  Came  into  the  crow's  nest,  and  the  crow  was  in," 
said  Smuggle-erie  shortly.  "  Send  for  the  dominie." 

"  You  mean — man,  you  don't  mean?  "  and  the  big 
skipper's  voice  was  drowned  in  a  gulp  of  horror. 

"  I've  cut  my  knuckles  already  on  the  red  whelp's 
teeth,"  said  Smuggle-erie  savagely.  "  Send  for  the 
dominie,  or  this  man'll  die,  if  he's  no  dead  already." 

A  great  light  leaped  into  the  captain's  eyes  and  he 
walked  to  the  door. 

"  Forgive  me,  lad,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Grizel !  " 
he  roared  through  the  door.  "  Put  on  your  bonnet, 
lass,  and  run  for  the  dominie." 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir !  "  said  Grizel.  "  I've  sent  Daft 
Tommy  as  fast  as  he  can  go.  But  we'll  have  to  make 
a  bed  in  the  parlor." 

She  came  into  the  room  on  tiptoe  and  slowly  ap- 
proached the  figure  on  the  settle.  She  gazed  at  Lar- 
kin  for  a  moment,  standing  a  few  yards  back.  Then 
she  whispered  fearfully: 

[83] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Is  he — is  he  living,  Smuggle-erie  ?  " 

"  Aye,  lass,  I  think  so — I  hope  so,"  said  he,  avert- 
ing his  eyes. 

Her  gaze  moved  to  her  reckless  lover.  His  chest 
was  bare,  and  he  was  wiping  the  dyed  moisture  from 
his  neck.  Grizel's  eyes  faltered  and  dropped  to  the 
carpet,  where  a  pool  of  sea-water  was  gathering 
around  Smuggle-erie's  feet. 

"  Was't  you — was't  you  that  saved  him?  "  she 
stammered. 

"  I  hauled  him  out  o'  the  water,  if  that's  what  you 
mean,"  said  he  roughly. 

Something  rose  in  her  throat  and  her  eyes  moved 
with  maternal  tenderness  to  the  white  face  on  the 
settle,  and  then  shyly  to  Smuggle-erie.  She  began 
to  cry  softly. 

At  that  moment  Captain  Grant's  voice  sang  out : 

"  Here  comes  the  dominie,  lad,  and  the  coast- 
guard's with  him ! " 


[84] 


CHAPTER  VII 

STILL    WATERS    RUN    DEEP 

FOR  a  week  after  Smuggle-erie  brought  Ben  Lar- 
kin  to  the  cottage  behind  the  flagstaff,  Morag  nestled 
at  the  base  of  the  hills  and  in  the  cup  of  the  bay,  as 
innocent  a  spot  as  a  village  in  a  painted  canvas. 

But  where  two  or  three  human  beings  are  gathered 
together  in  any  cause,  there  must  ever  flow  the  stream 
of  human  emotions,  fast  or  slow,  but  still  moving  to 
the  climax  of  the  individual  and  the  whole.  And  in 
Morag  a  terrible  drama  was  softly,  silently,  relent- 
lessly, and  unseen,  moving  to  the  crucial  night  of 
Laird  Halliday's  harvest  gathering — a  night  that  is 
still  remembered  in  Morag. 

It  was  Saturday  morning  when  Smuggle-erie  risked 
his  life  and  saved  his  honor  for  Ben  Larkin.  It  was 
Sunday  morning  when  the  lieutenant  came  to  a  full 
realization  of  what  had  happened  to  him  and  what 
had  been  done  for  him.  The  old  bell  of  the  parish 
church  was  humming  in  the  Sunday  stillness,  when 
he  awoke,  after  a  long,  refreshing  sleep,  and  lay  for 
a  while  wondering  where  he  was  and  how  he  got 
there. 

[85] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

The  parlor  of  the  skipper's  cottage  was  a  bright, 
sunny  room,  and  Larkin's  eye  appreciated  in  a 
moment  that  he  was  in  the  home  of  a  seafaring  man. 
Besides  the  ordinary  furnishings,  there  were  decora- 
tions collected  from  abroad — sunfish,  sharks'  teeth, 
carved  gourds,  ray-swords,  and  other  salty  sug- 
gestions. Over  the  fireplace,  too,  was  a  crude  paint- 
ing of  a  schooner,  which  Ben  Larkin  at  once  recog- 
nized as  the  Thistle  Down.  In  the  lower  part  of  the 
frame  were  a  couple  of  brass  hooks  supporting  a  very 
ancient  telescope;  while  underneath  was  a  master's 
certificate  framed  in  plain  oak. 

When  Grizel  Grant  stole  into  the  room  for  a  peep 
at  the  patient,  Ben  was  delighted,  but  not  surprised. 
He  had  already  made  up  his  mind  that  he  was  in 
Captain  John  Grant's  house.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  the  situation  was  a  bit  anomalous.  If  his  sus- 
picions of  Smuggle-erie  proved  correct,  they  must 
naturally  extend  to  the  master  of  the  Thistle  Down. 

Grizel  stood  looking  down  into  his  open  eyes  for 
a  moment  before  she  realized  that  he  was  awake. 
Then  she  stammered  something  about  being  very  glad, 
and  went  away  to  call  the  skipper,  who  presently  re- 
turned alone  and  asked  Larkin  how  he  felt. 

"Astonished,  that's  all,"  was  the  reply.  It  was 
given  in  a  voice  the  weakness  of  which  was  a  further 
astonishment  to  the  patient. 

"Good!"  said  the  big  sea-master.  "That's  the 
[86] 


Still  Waters  Run  Deep 

way  with  drowning.  It  either  kills  or  does  little 
harm." 

"  So  I  was  drowned?  "  said  Larkin.  "  Yes,  I  re- 
member -  " 

He  paused  and  looked  inquiringly  at  the  captain, 
whose  face  took  on  its  steel-trap  expression. 

"  I  remember  seeing  Smuggle-erie  coming  up 
through  the  water  to  meet  me."  He  stopped  and 
turned  an  appealing  eye  on  the  skipper.  "  I'm 
afraid  I'm  still  a  little  light-headed,  but  I  distinctly 
remember  -  It  was  very  odd.  .  .  .  Oh,  rub- 
bish !  "  he  added  wearily. 

"  I  wouldn't  bother  my  head  about  what  you  — 
about  how  you  felt  when  you  were  in  the  water,"  said 
the  captain.  "  You  had  better  go  to  sleep  again." 

He  moved  as  if  to  leave. 

"  No,  I'm  all  right,"  said  Larkin.  "  Who  was  it 
saved  me?  " 

"  Dick  Scrymegeour,"  the  captain  replied,  turning 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

"Who's  he?" 

"  He's  best  known  as  Smuggle-erie,"  was  the  re- 


"  Oh  !  "     After  a  pause,  Ben  Larkin  added  :     "  So 
it  was  Smuggle-erie  ?    .    .    .    I  would  like  to  see  him." 

"  As  soon  as  you  are  fit,"  said  the  captain.     "  Bet- 
ter sleep,  my  friend.     It's  the  best  cure."     This  time, 
with  a  smile,  he  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room. 
[87] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

Larkin  did  not  sleep  at  once.  So  it  -was  Smuggle- 
erie !  It  was,  then,  not  a  dream — not  the  hallucina- 
tion of  a  drowning  man.  Smuggle-erie  had  come  up 
through  the  water  to  rescue  him. 

The  matter  lingered  in  his  mind,  though  he  at- 
tempted to  banish  it  as  being  a  poor  show  of  grati- 
tude to  the  man  who  had  saved  his  life.  Yet  it  was 
his  duty.  His  duty?  To  turn  a  man's  brave  act 
into  evidence  that  would  put  him  in  jail? 

Dick  Scrymegeour — Smuggle-erie?  Probably  he 
was  related  to  Giles  Scrymegeour,  the  trader  to  whom 
the  Thistle  Down  was  consigned.  Ah !  Possibly 

"This  won't  do,"  thought  Ben  Larkin.  "I'll 
drive  myself  to  a  fever." 

He  turned  over  in  bed  and  looked  at  the  wall,  and 
saw  the  face  of  Smuggle-erie  coming  up  to  meet  him 
through  the  green  water.  Why,  then,  did  the  man 
save  him?  If,  indeed,  he  was  a  smuggler;  if,  indeed, 
he  was — as  Larkin  suspected — Heather  Bloom,  why 
did  he  not  let  him  drown? 

Then  he  idly  wondered  whether  smugglers  were  as 
black  as  they  were  painted.  Was  smuggling  such  a 
bad  business  after  all?  One  thing  was  certain. 
They  had  crossed  swords  a  second  time,  and  again 
Smuggle-erie  had  come  out  victor — distinctly  so! 
And,  having  settled  that,  he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed 
of  a  nut-brown  lass  who  stood  over  his  bed  and  looked 
down  into  his  eyes. 

[88] 


Still  Waters  Run  Deep 

Ben  Larkin  was  not  more  than  twenty-six  years 
old.  His  uniform,  of  which  he  was  so  proud,  made 
him  look  older.  Without  it,  he  looked  what  he  really 
was — an  overgrown  lad,  with  a  great  deal  of  sincerity 
in  him.  Ever  since  he  had  taken  up  his  command  in 
the  Coast-Guard  Service  at  Morag,  he  had  been  con- 
scious of  his  extreme  youth  and  inexperience,  but 
never  so  painfully  as  now.  The  knowledge,  how- 
ever, while  it  was  ever  with  him,  whetted  his  ambi- 
tion to  prove  that  he  could  be  a  man  when  occasion 
required. 

After  church  was  out,  old  Jack  Cookson  put  in  an 
appearance  and  insisted  upon  seeing  "  the  adm'ral." 
Here  was  one,  indeed,  who  unconsciously  gave  com- 
fort to  the  young  lieutenant,  in  that  the  old  sea-dog, 
as  Pitt  said  to  Walpole,  continued  ignorant  in  spite 
of  age  and  experience.  To  the  coast-guard,  Ben 
Larkin  had  communicated  none  of  his  suspicions. 
Horneycraft  had  communicated  all  of  his,  naturally, 
and  to  the  sum-total  of  them  old  Jack  Cookson  had 
replied : 

"  Smugglers  aboard  the  Thistle  Down,  sir?  You 
are  wrong,  sir  !  If  there  was  a  smuggler  aboard  that 
craft,  he  wouldn't  dare  look  me  in  the  face,  confound 
'im ! " 

Cookson  was  a  sailor,  accustomed  to  swing  a  cut- 
lass when  the  enemy  was  shown  him,  and  none  doubted 
the  old  fellow's  valor ;  but  it  was  this  very  valor  that 

[89] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

blinded  him  to  the  possibility  of  a  man  not  fighting  in 
the  open,  "  like  an  Englishman,  sir !  " 

As  he  stood  in  Captain  Grant's  parlor,  he  was  the 
very  picture  of  what  he  was — an  obsolete  but  pic- 
turesque old  hulk,  whose  principal  duty  as  coast- 
guard was  to  strut  round  like  an  old  turkey-cock  with 
his  telescope,  white  trousers,  and  blue  coat,  and  with 
tales  of  how  he  lost  his  left  arm  at  the  battle  of 
Trafalgar,  to  keep  alive  the  naval  spirit  and  general 
patriotism  of  the  rising  generation. 

"  Aha,  m'lad !  "  said  he,  when  he  had  offered  the 
usual  solicitous  inquiries  after  health  and  sleep,  "  this 
reminds  me  of  a  certain  adm'ral  of  great  and  glorious 
mem'ry — God  rest  his  soul  and  confound  the  French ! 
As  he  lay  in  the  old  Victory,  sir,  a-dyin'  of  his 
wounds,  he — 

"  You  mean  Horatio  Nelson  ? "  said  Larkin 
gravely. 

"  Who  else,  sir?  "  snorted  Jack  Cookson.  "  Lord 
Nelson,  sir — my  old  adm'ral.  Son  of  a  clergyman 
he  was — a  sky-pilot! — what  d'ye  think  o'  that? 
Piloted  more  Frenchmen  to  glory  in  one  hour  than 
his  father  did  in  a  lifetime,  by  thunder ! 

"  That  was  at  Trafalgar,  sir,  same  engagemint  I 
lost  m'  left  arm — in  the  sarvice  of  my  country  and 
king,  God  bless  'im !  I  remember  it  like  it  was  yes- 
terday, sir.  Only  a  few  minutes  before  he  fell, 
witally  wounded,  sir,  a  shot  tore  off  my  left  arm.  I 
[90] 


Still  Waters  Run  Deep 

lay  on  that  deck,  sir,  wishing  another  shot  would  take 
off  my  head  and  be  done  with  it.  Next  thing  I  sees 
is  my  old  adm'ral  a-bein'  carried  to  the  cockpit,  sir. 
You're  young,  sir — beggin'  your  pardon,  and  you 
won't  believe  it ;  but  when  'e  waved  'is  hand  to  us  lads 
— witally  wounded,  sir — I  forgot  I  'ad  ever  'ad  a  left 
arm,  and  I  sat  up,  sir,  and  cheered,  by  thunder! — 
cheered! 

"  After  that  it  didn't  matter  to  me,  nor  to  none  of 
us.  If  we  was  wounded,  so  was  'e!  Shot  and  shell? 
Minded  'em  no  more'n  peas  and  parsley,  sir — peas 
and  parsley!  Over'ead  was  the  glorious  string  of 
signals :  '  Hengland  expecks  this  day  that  every  man 
will  do  his  dooty.'  And — we — done  it,  by  thunder! 
— to  a  man,  sir!  I  was  disabled — lost  m'  left  arm, 
sir — but  I  lay  on  that  deck  and  shouted  with  might 
and  main :  '  God  bless  King  George  and  damn  the 
French ! '  " 

And  old  Jack  Cookson  finished  his  favorite  yarn 
with  a  battle-roar  that  brought  in  Mrs.  Martin  (the 
skipper's  housekeeper  since  Mrs.  Grant  died),  who 
said,  with  much  acidity: 

"  Wad  ye  hae  the  guidness  to  bear  in  mind, 
Adm'ral  Cookson,  that  this  is  the  Sawbath 
day?" 

"What's  that?"  snorted  old  Cookson.  "What 
did  I  do?  What  did  I  say?" 

"  Ye  said  '  damn  the  French,'  "  asserted  Mrs.  Mar- 
[91] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

tin,  adding  as  an  afterthought :    "  Heaven  f orgie  me 
for  repeatin'  the  vile  word." 

"  Madam,"  said  the  coast-guard,  rising  in  all  his 
naval  dignity,  telescope  and  all,  "  far  be  it  from  an 
Englishman  to  contradict  a  lady,  but  I  distinctly  said 
*  confound  the  French ! ' ; 

"  Pardon  me,  Adm'ral  Cookson,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Martin  stiffly,  "  I  am  no'  dull  o'  hearin'." 

"  I  appeal  to  the  adm'ral  in  the  cockpit  here ! " 
cried  Cookson.  "  Did  I  say  '  damn,'  sir?  " 

"  I  didn't  catch  the  precise  word,"  said  Ben  Lar- 
kin,  highly  amused,  "  but  if  it  wasn't  '  confound,'  it 
was  a  word  to  that  effect." 

"  There !  "  snorted  the  coast-guard,  and  Mrs.  Mar- 
tin retreated  under  all  sail. 

"  That  silenced  her  guns,  sir,"  said  Jack  Cookson 
victoriously. 

Just  as  the  patient  began  to  grow  drowsy  over  the 
coast-guard's  yarns,  the  dominie  put  in  an  appear- 
ance. 

The  two  men  were  as  opposite  in  character,  tastes, 
and  learning  as  a  high  priest  and  a  cabin-boy.  Yet, 
over  a  friendly  grog  and  each  with  a  churchwarden 
clay  pipe,  they  got  along  together  like  a  pair  of 
ducks.  But,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  they 
could  hardly  disagree,  seeing  that  the  one  never  lis- 
tened to  a  word  the  other  was  saying,  only  waiting  a 
chance  to  wedge  in  a  story  of  his  own. 
[92] 


Still  Waters  Run  Deep 

"  And  how  does  the  patient  progress  to-day  ?  " 
asked  the  kind  old  dominie,  after  the  usual  greetings. 
"  Let  us  hope,  well.  There  have  been  no  symptoms 
of  suffusion  of  blood  in  the  lungs,  I  trust,  nor  have 
you  experienced  any  great  pains  in  the  head?  Ah! 
That  is  gratifying.  You  will  be  well  in  a  few  days. 
Rest  is  all  you  need.  In  extreme  cases,  where  there 
might  have  been  breaking  of  the  lung  cells  from 
strangulation,  I  might  have  administered  a  drug;  but 
nature,  my  friends,  is  the  sovereign  remedy  for  all 
ills.  We,  despite  our  ever-increasing  knowledge,  are 
but  servants  of  the  great  medico,  the  master- 
surgeon,  Nature.  In  the  olden  times,  leeches  were 
applied  for  reducing  the  pressure  of  blood,  but  mod- 
ern science  has  established  that  blood  being  a  neces- 
sary concomitant  of  physical  strength,  it  was  highly 
desirable  that  it  should  be  left  to  thrive  the  patient. 
Nature,  sir!  Nature  is  the  sovereign  alchemist." 

"  That's  book-larnin' — book-larnin' !  "  said  the 
coast-guard.  "  An'  I  know  it  to  be  facts,  sir.  Why, 
at  sea  there  war'n't  no  folderols  about  the  sick-bay 
arter  an  engagement.  Nature,  by  thunder!  Na- 
ture done  it!  I've  seen  a  doctor  sail  in  an'  ampytate 
a  man's  leg  with  a  cutlass,  sir,  and  that  man  has  the 
finest  wooden  leg  you  ever  seen !  And  main  proud  o' 
that  leg,  too — made  out  of  a  mizzen-stump  as  was 
shot  away  in  the  engagement  with  Du  Grasse.  Ship's 
carpenter  turned  it  out  while  Rodney  was  towin'  the 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

whole  French  fleet  into  Jamaica  1 — place  they  make 
rum,  sir." 

Then  the  dominie  discoursed  on  Jamaica  and  re- 
markable instances  of  amputation,  and  the  two  old 
fogies  ended  by  going  off  arm-in-arm  to  the  coast- 
guard house,  Cookson  with  his  telescope  and  the  domi- 
nie with  his  staff,  and  the  bit  of  lace  falling  in  old- 
fashioned  grace  over  the  handle.  Ben  Larkin  lay 
in  bed,  smiling  at  the  queer  pair  they  made. 

When  he  awoke  again,  dusk  had  set  in.  He  felt 
refreshed,  contented,  and  stronger.  Nevertheless,  he 
was  comfortable  with  the  comfort  that  will  not  be  dis- 
turbed. It  was  pleasant  to  lie  there  in  the  soft  .light 
of  the  lamp  that  had  just  been  set  on  the  table,  and 
watch  the  glow  of  it  on  the  hair  of  the  nut-brown 
lass.  She  was  sitting  by  the  hearth  in  which  the 
first  fire  of  the  season  had  just  been  built.  It  was 
beginning  to  sputter  with  the  melodious  suggestion 
of  coziness. 

"  Miss  Grizel,"  he  said. 

She  came  to  the  bedside,  and,  seeing  that  he  was 
awake,  would  have  run  off,  as  before,  to  bring  her 
father  or  Mrs.  Martin.  But  he  detained  her. 

"  You  have  been  very  kind,"  he  said. 

"  I'm  sure,"  she  returned,  a  bit  confused,  "  that 

we're  quite  paid  for  it  if  your  life  has  been  saved. 

It — it  isn't  everyone,  captain — I  mean,  lieutenant — 

who  ever  gets  a  chance  to — to  save  somebody's  life." 

[94] 


Still  Waters  Run  Deep 

"  That's  a  very  deep  remark,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"  For  a  man,  maybe,"  she  flashed  mischievously. 
"  A  woman,  ye  ken,  must  spend  a'  her  life  saving." 

"  Saving  men,  you  mean?  " 

"  In  a  way.  Saving  his  money  for  him,  if  noth- 
ing else." 

"  Miss  Grizel,"  said  he  curiously,  "  do  you  always 
talk  like  that?" 

"  W-why  ?  "  she  stammered. 

"  Because  I  like  listening  to  you." 

"  I  must  call  my  father,"  she  interrupted.  "  He 
said  I  must  light  the  fire,  so  we  could  sit  by  and  cheer 
you  up." 

"  Did  you  light  the  fire?  " 

"  Yes." 

"And  the  lamp?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  A  sort  of  little  mother  in  the  house,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

She  turned  very  red  in  the  face,  but  it  was  plain 
she  was  not  displeased. 

"  Mother  died,  why,  when  I  was  only  five  years 
old,"  she  explained ;  "  and  Mrs.  Martin  reads  her 
Bible  on  Sundays." 

The  shadow  of  the  big  sea-master  fell  across  the 
room,  and  Grizel  pulled  his  armchair  into  position  by 
the  fire.  After  a  few  words  with  Larkin,  he  sat 
down ;  and  there  followed  an  awkward  pause. 

[95] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

Plainly,  the  man  was  ill  at  ease.  And  well  he 
might  have  been.  The  presence  of  the  revenue  officer 
— indeed,  the  whole  circumstances  of  the  business — 
seemed  like  the  finger  of  Providence  or  a  judgment. 
After  a  few  minutes,  Grant  looked  at  Grizel  and 
said: 

"  It's  Sunday,  lass.  Will  ye  no  play  on  the  har- 
monium ?  " 

The  little  organ  stood  near  the  improvised  extra 
bed  on  which  Larkin  lay,  and  was  so  situated  that 
when  Grizel  sat  down  at  it  he  could  see  her  profile 
silhouetted  against  the  firelight,  and  now  and  then  a 
glint  of  pink  on  her  cheek.  She  silently  turned  over 
the  pages  of  the  old  hymnbook  until  she  came  to  a 
favorite  piece.  Then,  with  her  head  quaintly  poised 
and  the  tip  of  a  little  pink  tongue  peeping  nervously 
from  the  corner  of  a  pretty  mouth,  she  played  for  the 
two  men. 

For  a  moment  Ben  Larkin  was  happy.  The  ten- 
derness of  sound  and  scene  swept  through  him.  Then 
he  came  up  short,  with  a  jarring  pang,  for  his  eyes 
suddenly  fell  upon  the  drooping,  despondent  figure 
of  John  Grant.  The  captain  was  leaning  forward, 
elbow  on  knee  and  cheek  in  hand,  staring  moodily  into 
the  fire.  Ben  Larkin  thought  he  understood,  but  he 
was  as  sorry  for  himself  as  for  the  big  sea-master. 

In  the  middle  of  Grizel's  playing,  Smuggle-erie  put 
in  an  appearance.  He  was  at  once  overcome  with 
[96] 


Still  Waters  Run  Deep 

embarrassment.  He  was  not  used  to  quiet  socials  of 
any  kind,  and  there  was  something  especially  dispirit- 
ing about  this  one.  When  Grizel's  playing  ceased, 
hat  in  hand,  he  passed  from  father  to  daughter,  shook 
hands  in  some  sort  of  fashion,  and  seemed  relieved 
when  he  found  himself  talking  to  Larkin. 

"  How  is  it,  lad?  "  he  said,  with  kindly  familiarity. 

"  All  well,  thanks  to  you,"  Larkin  replied,  shaking 
hands  with  him.  "  You  are  a  man,  Smuggle-erie." 

"  I  hope  so.  If  not,  there's  still  time,"  was  the 
odd  evasion  of  the  compliment.  "  You  wanted  to  see 
me?" 

"  Naturally.  How  did  you  get  me  out  of  that 
terrible  passage?  " 

"  I  didn't  find  you  in  the  passage,"  was  the  cool 
response.  "  The  tide  drew  you  out  of  it  and  I  picked 
you  up  elsewhere.  Come,  don't  let's  talk  about 
it." 

Larkin  suddenly  felt  ashamed. 

"  I — I  didn't  mean  to — I  shouldn't  have  spoken 
about  it,"  he  stammered.  "  But  I'm  grateful.  You 
know  that,  don't  you?  I'm  grateful." 

Smuggle-erie's  eyes,  twinkling  with  amusement, 
looked  down  into  his. 

"  That's  all  right,  lad.  I  did  my  duty,  as  I  expect 
you  to  do  yours." 

Despite  the  good  humor  of  his  eyes,  there  was  a 
shade  of  subtler  meaning  in  his  expression. 
[97] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

Smuggle-erie  sat  down  and  Grizel  began  another 
hymn. 

The  man  on  the  bed  heard  in  a  dim  way,  but  his 
eyes  moved  from  one  face  to  another.  Ben  Larkin 
respected  Grant,  despite  his  suspicions;  he  admired 
Smuggle-erie,  despite  his  convictions;  and  he  was 
beginning  to  love  Grizel,  in  spite  of  himself  and  the 
gulf  between  them. 

All  four  must  have  blessed  the  little  harmonium, 
which  precluded  talk  and  drowned  the  silence.  All 
except  the  innocent  Grizel  seemed  to  hear  the 
thoughts  of  the  others  through  the  soft  music,  as  the 
firelight  danced  mockingly  on  the  faces  of  the  three 
men.  Smuggle-erie  fidgeted  uneasily  in  his  chair, 
and  his  cap  seemed  an  incubus  on  his  knees.  His  eyes 
lingered  with  a  puzzled  look  on  Grizel's  hair,  shifted 
unhappily  to  the  silent  giant  by  the  hearth,  and 
finally  fixed  on  Ben  Larkin's  face.  The  young  officer 
was  half  sitting,  half  reclining,  with  his  elbow  on  the 
pillow,  and,  for  a  moment,  his  gaze  was  upon  Grizel's 
face.  Smuggle-erie  saw  it,  and  the  next  moment  his 
eyes  met  the  lieutenant's — and  the  hymn  ended  with  a 
decisive  "  A-amen." 

Smuggle-erie  rose,  bade  them  a  short  good-night, 
and  left  the  house.  Under  the  flagstaff  he  stopped. 
With  his  thumbs  stuck  in  his  belt,  he  looked  back  at 
the  lighted  parlor  window. 

The  sweet,  quiet  strains  of  the  harmonium  swelled 
[98] 


Still  Waters  Run  Deep 

like  some  tender  passion,  and  all  at  once  an  uncon- 
trollable wave  of  pagan  rage  and  jealousy  burned  in 
Smuggle-erie's  heart.  With  an  oath,  he  swung  away 
toward  Morag,  and  as  he  walked,  he  ripped  out  in 
savage  tone: 

"  I  wish  I'd  let  him  drown !  " 


[99] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    NIGHT    OF    THE    HARVEST-HOME 

SMUGGLE-ERIE'S  jealousy  was  not  without  reason, 
and  he  was  quick  to  realize  it.  Larkin's  growing  in- 
terest, too,  could  not  hide  itself  much  longer  from 
Grizel's  eyes,  nor  from  the  shrewd  perception  of  the 
dismayed  Captain  Grant.  But  the  lieutenant,  with 
creditable  delicacy  and  good  sense,  returned  to  the 
coast-guard  station  as  soon  as  he  was  fit  to  walk, 
which  was  on  Monday. 

For  the  rest  of  the  week,  however,  try  as  he  might 
to  avoid  it,  Larkin  found  himself,  in  some  way  or 
other,  walking  with  Grizel  or  meeting  with  her  and 
passing  part  of  the  day  in  passing  the  time  o'  day. 

Miss  Grizel,  daughter  of  Eve,  may  have  had  a 
hand  in  this  seeming  moving  of  the  fates.  Indeed, 
she  was  displeased  with  Smuggle-erie.  Her  old  lover 
had  suddenly  grown  sullen,  and  when  he  was  with  her 
for  more  than  five  minutes,  they  invariably  quarreled. 
The  sense  of  disappointment  which  she  felt  when  he 
tossed  her  an  apple  under  the  flagstaff,  presently  re- 
solved itself  into  a  kind  of  resentment  at  his  churlish 
[100] 


The  Night  of  the  Harvest-Home 

love-making.  Thus  the  lieutenant  held  the  field  al- 
most undisputed. 

Like  a  bull  that  has  charged  a  shadow  and  stunned 
itself  on  a  tree,  Smuggle-erie  battled  with  the  vague 
jealousy  which  had  newly  come  into  his  experience. 
Until  Grizel  entered  the  game,  if  his  interests  had 
been  opposed  to  those  of  Ben  Larkin,  it  had  never  oc- 
curred to  the  young  viking  that  he  need  fight  very 
hard,  such  was  his  confidence  in  his  prowess.  But 
this  was  a  game  of  which  he  was  no  master,  and  his 
repeated  attempts  to  score  a  point  failed,  or  only  suc- 
ceeded in  scoring  for  Larkin.  He  had  one  consola- 
tion, however,  and  that  was  his  ability  to  beat  the 
lieutenant  at  the  game  of  "  smuggle-erie."  And  beat 
him  at  every  turn  he  vowed  to  himself  he  would. 

It  is  doubtful,  indeed,  whether  Smuggle-erie  was 
capable  of  truly  loving  Grizel,  or  any  other  woman. 
There  was  much  in  him  that  was  lovable,  or  admi- 
rable, but  the  circumstances  of  his  childhood  and  the 
nature  of  his  profession  all  tended  to  an  inoffensive 
egotism — the  self-protective  instinct  of  the  fine  ani- 
mal. His  jealousy  of  Grizel's  love  was — as,  indeed, 
all  jealousy  is,  more  or  less — merely  the  sense  of  being 
robbed.  The  difference  between  Smuggle-erie's  jeal- 
ousy and  that  of  a  less  self-loving  man  was  the  differ- 
ence between  the  dog  in  the  manger  and  the  fox  that 
really  wanted  the  grapes. 

By  the  end  of  the  week,  when  the  annual  harvest- 
[101] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

home  was  to  take  place  in  the  big  hall  of  Laird  Halli- 
day's  castle,  matters  had  reached  a  point  where  some- 
thing definite  was  bound  to  happen.  Something  did 
happen  that  night — many  things  happened  which  in- 
volved other  persons  besides  Smuggle-erie,  Grizel,  and 
Ben  Larkin. 

The  harvest-home  was,  next  to  the  New  Year's  Eve 
jollification,  the  biggest  social  event  in  Morag. 
From  all  the  countryside  came  the  laird's  tenants  and 
the  neighboring  farmers  to  celebrate  the  homing  of 
the  harvest,  was  it  good  or  bad.  The  laird  himself 
was  not  a  sociable  man,  although  this  was  ever  a  mat- 
ter for  surprise  to  those  who  saw  his  jolly,  fat  face 
at  his  sole  annual  appearance.  He  headed  the  table, 
which  groaned  with  hams,  haggis,  poultry,  and  other 
eatables;  danced  with  Mary,  Maggie,  and  Molly; 
drank  with  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry,  and  paid  the 
piper,  both  figuratively  and  literally.  Then  for 
three  hundred  and  sixty-four  days  he  was  again  a 
recluse. 

It  was  a  grand  night  for  love-making,  eating,  and 
drinking  in  the  old  castle,  and  Morag  was  a  deserted 
village  while  it  lasted.  Smugglers  were  given  a  holi- 
day, for  the  Coast-Guard  Service  attended  to  a  man, 
led  by  "  Adm'ral  "  Jack  Cookson  with  his  shining 
telescope  and  best  uniform.  The  king's  gentlemen 
rubbed  shoulders  and  clinked  glasses  with  Heather 
Bloom  and  his  daring  lads,  without  knowing  or  caring 
[102] 


The  Night  of  the  Harvest-Home 

who  they  might  be.  The  dominie  lent  an  air  of  vener- 
able distinction  to  the  proceedings,  and  even  Giles 
Scrymegeour  and  Horneycraft  had  been  known  to 
have  a  civil  word  for  each  other  at  the  harvest- 
home. 

But  this  year  both  Giles  and  Horneycraft  had 
other  business  to  attend  to.  What  Horneycraft's 
doings  were,  none  ever  knew  until  they  were  done,  and 
what  Old  Scryme's  might  be,  only  the  Evil  Eye  could 
tell.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Giles  Scrymegeour  had 
chosen  the  night  of  the  harvest-home  as  being  highly 
suitable  for  the  transaction  of  a  little  piece  of  busi- 
ness which  it  would  have  been  inadvisable  to  perform 
in  public  and  in  daylight. 

The  harvest-home  feast  began  about  five  o'clock  in 
the  evening.  As  soon  as  it  was  dark,  Old  Scryme, 
gazing  with  satisfaction  along  the  deserted  street, 
closed  up  his  house  and  shop,  and  putting  the  key  in 
his  breast-pocket,  mounted  the  shaggy  pony  which  it 
was  his  custom  to  ride  when  business  took  him  to  the 
hills. 

He  carefully  avoided  the  vicinity  of  Morag  Castle 
or  the  road  leading  to  it,  making  a  detour  in  order  to 
avoid  meeting  anybody.  When  he  finally  emerged 
upon  the  main  highway  winding  up  into  the  hills,  it 
was  pitch-dark,  and  Giles,  leaning  nervously  over  the 
pony's  neck,  whipped  up  greater  speed. 

Giles  Scrymegeour,  it  is  hardly  worth  mentioning, 
[103] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

was  a  poltroon  of  the  veriest  depths.  His  conscience 
was  bad,  and  a  bad  conscience  is  like  having  a  Jere- 
miah for  a  bedfellow — a  constant  reminder  of  evil 
things.  As  Old  Scryme  rode  through  the  darkness 
he  was  filled  with  the  dread  that  something — not  a 
ghost,  but  something  material — was  following  him. 
Of  ghosts  there  were  plenty,  too.  They  sat  behind 
him  on  the  pony,  trotted  alongside,  rose  up  before  the 
pony's  head,  and  leaned  over  Giles's  shoulder  with 
little  reminding  whispers  of  things  Old  Scryme  had 
done  in  the  past. 

To  enumerate  Giles's  virtues,  it  would  be  necessary 
to  employ  a  process  of  elimination  and  then  hold  a 
court  of  inquiry  upon  what  was  left.  When  he  first 
came  to  Morag,  the  village  was  Eden  before  the  ar- 
rival of  the  serpent.  He  loaned  money  at  the  begin- 
ning, and  generously  refrained  from  foreclosing  his 
mortgages.  In  this  way  he  swung  the  sword  of 
Damocles  over  the  heads  of  his  victims.  In  time  he 
opened  a  licensed  tavern.  By  degrees  he  tightened 
the  rack  upon  Morag,  until  at  the  time  of  this  story 
he  was,  in  one  way  or  another,  master  of  the  village 
and  keeper  of  Morag's  honor,  most  of  which,  neatly 
tied  with  white  tape,  reposed  in  the  old  iron  box  in 
his  office.  He  lived  in  nightly  dread  of  being  mur- 
dered, and  he  never  went  out  after  dark  unless  the 
matter  on  hand  were  well  worth  it.  The  agonies  he 
endured  from  his  tortured  conscience  and  an  in- 
[104] 


The  Night  of  the  Harvest-Home 

stinctive  fear  of  the  dark,  were  often  a  dear  price  for 
what  he  gained. 

He  was  vastly  relieved,  therefore,  when  a  light  on 
the  hillside  about  two  miles  behind  Morag  told  him 
that  his  destination  was  near.  He  whipped  up  the 
pony  and  pressed  on — 

Like  one  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 
Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 

Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

It  was  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  he  drew  up  before 
the  Cothouse  Inn  and  tied  his  pony  to  the  hitching- 
post. 

The  Cothouse  was  a  mountain  roadhouse  of  par- 
ticularly sinister  repute.  Parents  discouraged  their 
children  from  walking  on  the  Cothouse  road  on  Sun- 
day afternoon,  for  it  was  whispered  with  horror 
among  the  rigid  Presbyterians  that  the  inn  was  the 
Sunday  resort  of  drunkards  and  gamblers  from  the 
surrounding  hills.  The  nominal  proprietor  of  the 
place  was  Baldy  Currie,  better  known  as  the  Red 
Mole ;  but  rumor  had  it  that  Giles  Scrymegeour  was 
controller  of  the  till. 

The  Red  Mole  spent  most  of  his  days  upon  the  sea, 
and  for  the  most  part  the  public-house  bar  was  man- 
aged by  Mrs.  Baldy  Currie,  an  enormously  fat 
woman,  whose  favorite  tipple  was  vinegar,  and  whose 
tongue  was  as  sour.  That  vinegar,  which  she 
[105] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

drank  in  efforts  to  regain  her  lost  barmaid  beauty, 
was  the  only  womanly  trait  left  in  her  character. 
Her  son,  a  tall,  muscular,  surly  youth,  was  the  only 
law  and  order  in  that  lawless,  disorderly  plague-spot. 
He  ruled  by  terror. 

On  this  the  night  of  the  harvest-home  the  inn  was 
deserted  except  for  the  Curries.  Mrs.  Currie  could 
be  heard  snoring  stertorously  upstairs.  The  air  was 
faintly  impregnated  with  strong  vinegar. 

The  Red  Mole  greeted  Old  Scryme  with  the 
obsequiousness  of  hatred  and  led  the  way  into  a  back 
room.  Here  there  was  a  young  man  lying  asleep  on  a 
table.  It  seemed  as  if  he  would  never  uncurl  himself 
to  his  full  length,  when  his  father  roughly  awoke  him. 
Then  he  stood  up  in  his  long  leather  boots  and 
guernsey,  and  waited  for  someone  else  to  speak. 

"  Weel,"  said  Old  Scryme,  "  is't  a'  ready?  " 

"  Aye ! " 

"  Had  we  no  better  see  it  ?  " 

The  tall  youth  took  a  key  from  a  nail,  while  his 
father,  the  Red  Mole,  fetched  a  lamp. 

Archibald,  as  the  son  was  called,  then  lifted  the 
shop  shutters  from  their  accustomed  place  on  the 
wall.  Behind  them  was  a  door  into  which  he  slipped 
the  key. 

"There  ye  are,"  said  the  Red  Mole.  "None  o' 
yer  public  property  Fr  me.  When  it's  day,  there's 
the  shutters,  and  wha'd  think  there  was  a  door  ahint? 
[106] 


The  Night  of  the  Harvest-Home 

An'  then  when  it's  night,  an'  the  shutters  are  up, 
there's  none  to  see  but  me  an'  mine." 

*'  Aye,  aye !  "  said  Giles  with  a  grin. 

The  son  silently  waved  them  into  the  open  doorway 
and  stood  on  guard  as  they  went  below.  In  the  cellar 
the  light  of  the  Red  Mole's  lamp  revealed  about  half 
a  hundred  kegs  stacked  neatly  at  the  farther  end. 

"  Ye  canna  wait  a  wee  an'  make  it  mair  worth 
while  ?  "  whined  the  miser. 

"  Not  another  day,"  said  the  Red  Mole  decisively, 
as  he  set  down  the  lamp.  "  It's  no  safe  a  minnit 
longer.  What  wi'  that  young  fool  Smuggle-erie 
turnin'  the  castle  hole  into  a  hospital,  an'  a  long- 
nosed,  whey-faced  collector  prowlin'  ahint  hedges " 

"  Ahint  hedges ! "  Old  Scryme  echoed,  looking 
hastily  around  the  cellar.  "  What  d'ye  mean  ?  " 

"  Yon  Hoarneycraft  man's  been  pokin'  aroon'  this 
place  for  twa  days." 

"Horneycraft!" 

"  Aye,  but  I'll  no  hae  seen  him  the  day.  He'll  hae 
gi'en  it  up  in  disgust,  like." 

"  Aye,  aye.  I'm  glad  to  hear't.  Noo,  is  the  cart 
an'  the  lads  ready  for  the  morrin's  night?  " 

"  Aye,  aye,"  the  Red  Mole  replied.  "  They'll  leave 
on  the  stroke  o'  twelve.  But  what's  this  I'm  hearin' 
o*  Heather  Bloom?  The  lads'll  want  an  answer  on 
that  afore  they'll  risk  it." 

"  Leave  that  to  me,"  whispered  Giles  with  a  grin. 
[107] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  I  hae  a  wee  word  that'll  send  him  to  sea  as  quick's 
Jack  Robinson.  He's  been  like  that  afore,  but — 
wheesht!  What's  that  f" 

Giles  stopped  and  stood  listening  with  his  fingers 
raised  to  the  roof.  Light  footsteps  could  be  heard 
passing  through  the  public  bar. 

"  It's  Archibald,  man — just  Archibald,"  said  the 
Red  Mole. 

"  Na,  na,"  whispered'Giles,  turning  very  pale.  "  It's 
no  Archibald.  What  for  wad  he  tiptoe  like  that  ?  " 

At  that  Baldy  Currie,  who  knew  that  his  son  was  a 
lumbering  animal,  suddenly  made  a  grab  for  the 
lamp.  He  paused. 

The  two  culprits  stood  for  a  moment  in  breathless 
suspense.  Then  came  a  sudden  rush  of  feet  and  a 
fierce  oath  in  Archibald's  voice. 

"  Guid  forgie  me !  I'm  trapped  1 "  cried  Old 
Scryme. 

"  Shut  up,  ye  auld  idiot ! "  the  Red  Mole  snarled, 
his  eyes  lurid  with  the  danger-signal.  "  Another 
word  an'  I'll  thraw  yer  neck.  Get  ahint  the  barrels — 
quick ! " 

Giles  Scrymegeour  flung  his  riding-cloak  over  his 
face  and  sprung  toward  the  hiding-place,  but  before 
he  could  conceal  himself  there  came  a  rumbling  and 
tumbling,  and  down  the  flight  of  stairs  rolled  Archi- 
bald interlocked  with  the  revenue  collector,  Mr. 
Horneycraft. 

[108] 


The  Night  of  the  Harvest-Home 

The  moment  they  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs, 
Archibald  knew  that  he  had  his  man  safe. 

He  disentangled  himself  and  took  up  a  stand  on 
the  stairway  where  he  could  bar  the  enemy's  exit. 

Mr.  Horneycraft,  however,  had  no  intention  of 
leaving.  He  stood  up  before  the  Red  Mole  and  bowed 
in  sardonic  triumph. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Currie,"  he  sneered.  "  An  unexpected 
visit,  eh?  Mr.  Scrymegeour,  I  observed  as  I  came  in, 
was  suddenly  overcome  with  commendable  modesty. 
Come  out,  Mr.  Giles  Scrymegeour — come  out !  " 

There  was  a  gravelike  stillness  in  the  cellar  for  a 
few  seconds.  The  lamp  in  Red  Mole's  hand  shook 
like  a  light  reflected  in  moving  waters,  but  the  tall 
youth  on  the  staircase  stood  there  as  stiff  and  ex- 
pressionless as  a  Roman  soldier. 

Then  Giles  Scrymegeour  came  from  behind  the 
barrels.  His  face  was  livid,  but  if  there  was  any  fear 
in  it,  it  was  the  fear  of  desperation. 

"  Is't  yersel',  Maister  Horneycraft?"  he  snarled. 
"  It's  a  braw  night — for  you !  " 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Horneycraft  coolly.  "  I 
think  I  will  set  my  official  seal  upon  this  cellar  and 
escort  you  before  the  nearest  justice  of  the  peace." 

It  must  be  said  for  Horneycraft  that  he  showed 

not  a  trace  of  fear.     Yet  his  bravery  was  not  of  the 

kind  that  is  truly  admirable.      Rather,  he  was  so 

steeped  in  his  business  and  so  hardened  to  the  despera- 

[109] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

tion  of  those  whom  he  found  guilty  of  evading  the 
revenue,  that  it  is  probable  the  peril  of  his  situation 
never  dawned  upon  him. 

"  An'  so  ye'll  set  yer  official  seal  on  the  place,  will 
ye?  "  said  Scrymegeour.  "  Mebbe  we  might  set  an 
official  seal  on  yer  mouth !  " 

"  Spare  your  threats,  Mr.  Scrymegeour,"  said  Mr. 
Horneycraft  loftily.  "  I've  heard  threats  before." 

"  Mebbe  ye'll  no  hear  them  agin,"  said  Giles  un- 
easily, as  if  he  hesitated  to  utter  the  words  that, 
once  out,  could  not  be  recalled. 

The  figure  in  the  stairway  took  a  step  nearer. 
The  Red  Mole  put  down  the  lamp.  Giles  gathered 
courage  and  support  from  these  movements. 

"  Ye'll  escort  us  to  the  nearest  justice  of  the  peace, 
will  ye?"  Old  Scryme  rasped  out.  "Are  ye  sure 
that  y'are  goin'  yersel'  ?  " 

He,  too,  crept  a  step  nearer  Mr.  Horneycraft. 
All  at  once  he  said  in  an  evil,  quick  whisper : 

"  An  ill  day  for  you,  Mr.  Horneycraft,  that  ye 
recognized  Giles  Scrymegeour.  If  there's  to  be 
bloodshed  in  this  place  the  night,  be  it  yer  ain  an' 
upon  yer  ain  heid !  " 

"  Na,  na ! "  cried  the  Red  Mole,  his  terror  of  dis- 
covery getting  the  better  of  his  animal  ferocity. 
"  There'll  be  none  o'  that  in  my  hoose.  They'd  search 
for  him." 

Scrymegeour  turned  upon  him  like  an  animal  at 
[110] 


The  Night  of  the  Harvest-Home 

bay.  He  saw  with  his  cunning,  ratlike  shrewdness 
that  it  was  the  life  of  the  hunted  or  the  hunter. 
Above  all  things,  he  saw  that  it  was  chiefly  necessary 
for  the  safety  of  Giles  Scrymegeour  that  someone 
else  be  a  party  to  the  murder. 

"  Ye're  mighty  canny,  Baldy,"  he  jeered.  "  Was't 
no'  you  that  wad  hae  cut  the  weazand  o'  the  lufftenant 
in  the  cave  ?  " 

Mr.  Horneycraft  pricked  up  his  ears.  The  Red 
Mole  subsided. 

Old  Scryme  went  forward  and  whispered  rapidly  in 
his  ear.  The  hairy  monster  shook  like  a  leaf  in  the 
breeze,  and  his  lips  made  inarticulate  sounds  of  pro- 
test and  assent. 

Then  Giles  turned  upon  Mr.  Horneycraft  and  bade 
him  good-night. 

"  You  cannot  leave  this  place ! "  cried  Horney- 
craft. "  I  arrest  you  in  the  king's  name !  The 
place  is  surrounded !  " 

"  It's  a  lie ! "  the  tall  youth  on  the  staircase  said 
stolidly. 

Horneycraft,  who  had  almost  forgotten  his  late 
antagonist's  existence,  turned  around  with  a  start. 

In  that  moment  Giles  Scrymegeour  slipped  past 
him.  Horneycraft  sprang  to  stop  his  passage,  but 
Archibald  hurled  the  collector  back. 

In  another  moment  Giles  Scrymegeour  had  reached 
the  public-house  upstairs.  As  he  stood  for  a  moment, 
[111] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

dazed  with  nervous  reaction,  he  heard  the  stertorous 
breathing  of  Mrs.  Currie  and  smelt  the  taint  of  vine- 
gar. Stricken  with  sudden  horror,  he  rushed  from 
the  place.  He  unhitched  the  shaggy  pony  and 
scrambled  into  the  saddle.  From  within  he  heard  an 
inner  door  close  with  a  heavy  slam  and  a  rusty  key 
turn  in  the  lock. 

The  miser  lashed  the  pony  into  a  gallop.  About  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  down  the  hill  he  suddenly  remem- 
bered that  if  the  crime  was  to  be  hidden,  his  appear- 
ance must  not  be  the  first  thing  to  arouse  suspicion. 
He  drew  the  pony  to  a  standstill  and  allowed  the  half- 
winded  animal  to  blow.  Suddenly  conscious  of  the 
mountain  silence  around  him  Giles  turned  in  the  sad- 
dle and  looked  at  the  dim  light  of  Cothouse  Inn. 

He  wondered  what  was  going  on  in  the  cellar  under 
that   house.      Were   they    killing   him    now? 
would  Baldy  do  it?     Smother  him?     Stab  him? 

As  his  mind  danced  from  one  alternative  to  an- 
other, among  the  still  mountains,  echoing  like  the 
shrieking  of  a  million  devils,  went  the  long,  wailing 
cry  of  a  human  being  in  distress. 

Giles  Scrymegeour,  with  a  gurgling  noise  in  his 
throat,  brought  down  the  lash  upon  the  pony's  head. 
The  animal  lunged  violently,  then  horse  and  rider 
rushed  down  the  hill  road  in  mad  flight. 


[112] 


CHAPTER  IX 

LOVE    OR    DUTY? 

GILES  never  slowed  up  until  he  was  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  town.  Even  then  he  urged  the  pony  over  the 
same  detour  at  a  speed  to  arouse  suspicion.  For- 
tunately for  him  he  met  no  one,  the  harvest-home 
having  assimilated  most  of  the  population. 

It  had  been  Old  Scryme's  plan,  once  he  had  stabled 
the  pony,  to  go  to  bed.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him 
that  an  alibi  was  a  poor  thing  if  there  was  nobody  to 
witness  it.  There  was  only  one  move  for  him  to 
make,  and  his  cowardly  soul  shrank  from  it.  He 
must  appear  at  the  harvest-home,  and  that  as  if  he 
had  been  there  all  the  time. 

Behold,  then,  the  old  scoundrel  struggling  with  a 
white  linen  shirt,  which  presently  covered  as  black  a 
heart  as  beat  that  night  in  Morag.  When  fully 
dressed  he  went  away  swiftly  toward  the  laird's  castle, 
where  he  presently  appeared  in  conversation  with  this 
man  and  that,  seeming  at  each  encounter  with  his 
acquaintances  to  have  chanced  upon  them  for  the  first 
time,  and  expressing  surprise  thereat. 

It  was  a  very  different  scene  from  the  cellar  of  the 
[113] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

Cothouse  Inn,  this  big  hall  of  Morag  Castle.  The 
fun  was  in  full  swing  when  the  miser  put  in  an  ap- 
pearance. The  eating-tables  had  been  thrust  to  the 
walls  or  cleared  away  altogether.  On  one  of  them 
sat  Blind  Johnny  and  his  blind  son,  both  with  their 
fiddles  tucked  under  chin  and  dirling  away  at  Scotch 
dance  music.  The  castle  fairly  shook  with  the  simul- 
taneous tap  of  hundreds  of  feet  in  the  boisterous 
Highland  dances,  while  the  air  was  split  with  the 
exuberant  "  Hooch!  Hooch!  " 

In  the  middle  of  the  swirl  was  Smuggle-erie,  as 
master  of  the  floor.  His  eyes  were  bright  and  his 
face  animated  with  the  fire  of  excitement  and  pleas- 
ure. Not  far  from  him  was  Ben  Larkin,  with  Grizel 
on  his  arm.  For  once,  Smuggle-erie  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  his  jealousy,  and  the  way  he  swung  an 
isolated  maid  around,  when  his  duties  gave  him  a 
chance,  suggested  that  one  lass  was  as  good  as  an- 
other when  it  came  to  a  reel. 

Around  the  walls,  on  the  tables  and  chairs,  were 
the  old  folk  of  Morag,  all  looking  on  with  reminiscent 
smiles  and  fondness  for  their  sons  and  daughters. 
To  see  a  mother's  eyes  follow  a  lass  on  the  floor  was 
to  imagine  a  picture  of  the  dressing  before  the  ball — 
the  old  mother's  touch  on  the  ribbons  and  curls  and 
the  final  approval;  while  the  winking — nudging — 
chuckling  of  the  old  men  as  the  youngsters  twirled 
their  partners  about  was  a  story  in  itself. 
[114] 


Love  or  Duty? 

The  dominie  was  there,  of  course,  with  his  chin 
well-nigh  settled  on  the  handle  of  his  staff,  and  at  his 
side  was  the  voluble  coast-guard.  Near  him  was 
Captain  John  Grant. 

"  And  they  dare  to  tell  me  in  the  face  of  this," 
cried  old  Cookson,  "  that  there  are  smugglers  in 
Morag?  Why,  sir,  even  if  there  were — even  if  there 
were,  I  say! — what's  the  odds,  by  thunder?  All's 
fair  in  love  and  war.  This  is  love,  and  strike  me 
to'gallants,  that  lass  of  your'n,  cap'n,  is  the  slip- 
periest craft  in  the  whole  fleet."  This,  as  Grizel 
swung  gracefully  past  with  Larkin.  "  A  trim  craft, 
sir,  with  a  clean  pair  o'  heels,  and  a  noble  consort,  by 
thunder !  A  gentleman  and  an  officer  of  the  king — 
God  bless  'im !  " 

"  The  way  o'  youth — the  way  o'  youth !  "  mourn- 
fully murmured  Grogblossom,  who  looked  more  like  a 
pig  than  ever  in  his  best  clothes.  "  It's  a'  very  fine, 
but  change  and  decay'll  bring  wrinkles  to  them  a' 
and " 

"  Tut,  tut ! "  protested  the  dominie,  turning  upon 
Grogblossom.  "  You  speak,  as  the  poet  did,  my 
friend,  of  the  roses  that  to-morrow  will  be  dying,  but 
change  and  decay  do  not  destroy  the  sense  of  the 
poet's  first  thought,  *  Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye 
may.'  Life,  my  friend,"  he  added  with  a  paternal 
smile  upon  Grogblossom,  "  is  an  experience.  We  live 
it  but  once,  so  that  each  of  its  seven  ages  comes  to  us 
[115] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

as  a  novelty.  Even  the  grave,  from  which  none  has 
returned  to  speak,  may  be,  for  all  we  can  tell,  another 
novelty." 

"  That's  book-larnin',  by  thunder — book-larnin' !  " 
cried  Cookson,  while  Grogblossom  drifted  away,  shak- 
ing his  head.  "  Talkin'  o'  experiences  an*  novelties, 
sir,  what  you  say  is  proved  by  facts.  I  knew  a  man 
— bo'sun  o'  the  old  Urgent — as  was  a-haulin'  at  the 
gaskets  when  a  rope  gave  way  an'  he  fell  from  the 
mizzen-tree  straight  to  the  deck.  Was  'e  killed? 
No,  sir!  The  old  Urgent  rolled  on  a  sea  and  the 
man  fell  into  the  ocean.  Was  'e  drowned  ?  No,  sir ! 
The  next  sea  flung  'im  with  tree-mendyus  force  right 
aboard  agin.  That  wave  hit  the  deck  like  a  twelve- 
pounder  dropped  from  the  peak.  Was  'e  crushed? 
No,  sir!  That  man  fell  into  the  belly  of  the  sail,  like 
a  babby  into  a  feather  bed.  And  any  man  wot  says 
death  wouldn't  be  a  novelty  to  that  man  is  either  a 
liar  or  no  gentleman." 

Cookson's  yarn  was  greeted  with  a  laugh,  which 
sounded  louder  in  the  cessation  of  the  music.  Ben 
Larkin  led  Grizel  to  a  seat,  and  the  coast-guard 
treated  Captain  Grant  to  a  playful  poke  in  the  ribs 
as  the  young  couple  began  what  was  apparently  a 
very  personal  conversation. 

Smuggle-erie  seemed  to  pay  no  attention,  but 
busied  himself  about  the  floor,  arranging  the  next 
dance,  which  was  that  half-savage  Highland  romp — 
[116] 


Love  or  Duty? 

the  schottische.  As  it  is  properly  danced  in  Scotland, 
the  partners  face  each  other,  hands  on  hips,  dance  a 
few  steps  and  trip  off  to  the  left,  a  few  more  steps 
and  run  to  the  right,  then  with  a  "  Hooch ! "  they 
fling  themselves  into  each  other's  arms  and  swing 
around  with  such  momentum  that  the  lady  invariably 
loses  her  footing. 

But  there  was  something  extraordinary  about  this 
schottische.  The  eyes  of  a  great  number  of  men 
were  upon  Smuggle-erie.  He  suddenly  looked  across 
the  room  at  Giles  Scrymegeour,  who  nodded  his  head 
with  a  mysterious  grin.  The  next  moment  the  young 
sailor  was  whispering  in  Blind  Johnny's  ear.  The 
old  fiddler  and  his  son  tuned  up,  while  the  dancers  got 
ready,  all  asking,  as  usual,  what  the  tune  was  to  be. 

The  fiddles  struck  up,  and  immediately  Ben  Larkin 
gave  a  start,  for  it  was  the  tune  that  had  puzzled  him 
so  often.  At  the  same  time  he  failed  to  hear  Grizel's 
quiet  voice;  for  close  by  him  a  gruff  voice  said  in- 
cautiously and  with  a  note  of  exuberance: 

"  That  means  the  morrin's  night !  Come  on,  lads. 
Kick  up  yer  heels  !  " 

Next  moment  the  floor  was  swarming,  not  only  with 
couples,  but  with  pairs  of  men,  principally  of  the 
Thistle  Down's  crew,  who  romped  around  boisterously, 
humming  the  lively  air  and  stamping  their  feet  at 
the  beginning  of  every  line. 

Although  Larkin  thought  he  perceived  significance 
[117] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

in  it  all,  there  was  to  the  uninitiated  nothing  more 
than  the  usual  horse-play  of  the  late  dauce,  when 
cheeks  are  warm  and  eyes  bright. 

All  at  once  Smuggle-erie's  voice  rang  out  at  the 
beginning  of  a  verse : 

"  Pease  brose  again,  mither,  pease  brose  again  ! " 

And  from  almost  every  man  in  the  room  came 
the  response  in  a  roar  of  delight  and  enthusiasm: 

"  Ye  feed  me  like  a  blackbird,  and  me  yer  only  wean  ! " 

"  When  does  the  Thistle  Down  sail  ?  "  Ben  Larkin 
suddenly  asked,  turning  to  Grizel. 

"  To-morrow  night,"  she  replied  innocently. 

"  Grizel,  ye  haven't  given  me  a  dance  yet,"  said 
Smuggle-erie,  coming  up.  "  Is  the  '  admiral '  to  get 
them  all?  " 

"  Certainly,  I'll  dance,  Smuggle-erie,"  replied 
Grizel,  with  a  little  toss  of  her  head.  "  It's  you  that 
have  na  asked  me." 

The  two  of  them  danced  away  into  the  crowd  leav- 
ing Ben  Larkin  with  his  heart  heavy,  not  because  she 
had  gone  off  with  his  rival,  but  with  a  sense  that  he 
was  being  made  a  fool  of — as  if  missiles  were  flying 
around  his  head  from  some  unseen  source. 

He  looked  over  the  great  room,  and  presently  his 
eyes  fell  upon  Captain  John  Grant  and  Giles  Scryme- 
[118] 


Love  or  Duty? 

geour.  The  two  men  were  standing  apart,  and,  at  a 
glance,  Larkin  was  aware  that  they  were  engaged  in 
a  quiet,  tense  argument. 

The  big  sea-master's  face  was  as  black  as  a  storm- 
cloud.  His  mouth  was  set  like  a  steel  trap  and  his 
arms  were  folded  across  his  breast.  Scrymegeour,  in 
order  to  whisper,  was  standing  almost  on  tiptoe  to 
reach  the  giant's  ear,  and  the  miser's  ratlike  face  was 
stuck  forward  in  an  insinuating  manner. 

Larkin  saw  Grant  suddenly  turn  upon  his  heel,  say 
something  decisive  over  his  shoulder,  and  walk  out  of 
the  hall.  He  did  not  come  back. 

When  the  wild  dance  was  over,  the  smugglers — or, 
rather,  the  crew  of  the  Thistle  Down — melted  away 
also.  Smuggle-erie,  alone  of  that  brotherhood,  re- 
mained in  the  hall.  He  presently  brought  Grizel 
back  to  her  former  partner,  and  surrendered  her  with 
a  readiness  that  was  as  astonishing  to  Larkin  as  it 
was,  somehow,  disappointing  to  Grizel. 

The  nut-brown  lass,  it  may  as  well  be  said  truth- 
fully, had  not  enjoyed  her  evening  as  much  as  the 
old  coast-guard  supposed.  She  had  danced  with  the 
handsome  young  officer  to  the  exclusion  of  nearly 
everyone  except  the  laird.  Even  that  social  tri- 
umph had  not  taken  from  her  heart  a  bitterness  which 
had  suddenly  sprung  up  with  regard  to  Smuggle-erie. 
She  had  expected  that  she  would  have  humbled  her 
daredevil  lover  to  the  dust.  In  her  heart  she  had 

[119] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

decided  that,  before  the  night  was  over,  she  would 
have  granted  Smuggle-erie  the  forgiveness  for  his 
former  churlishness  which  she  had  fully  expected  he 
would  have  asked. 

Smuggle-erie,  however,  had  apparently  played  her 
at  her  own  game.  What  it  cost  him  she  had  no  means 
of  knowing.  All  she  did  know  was  that  he  had  left 
her,  unprotested,  in  the  hands  of  his  rival,  and  had 
seemingly  enjoyed  himself  in  every  dance  with  every 
other  lass.  Before  that  night  she  had  never  stopped 
to  consider  which  of  the  two  lovers  she  preferred. 
Now  she  knew  that  she  preferred  one  of  them,  but 
which  ? 

A  woman's  heart,  under  such  circumstances,  is  often 
as  much  of  a  mystery  to  herself  as  it  is  to  her  ad- 
mirers. She  suddenly  felt  a  dependence  on  Ben  Lar- 
kin,  but  the  thought  that  such  dependence  was  Hob- 
son's  choice,  stung  her  pride.  When  the  lieutenant 
requested  the  honor  of  the  next  dance — with  a  confi- 
dence that  it  would  be  granted  because  it  was  the  last 
— she  pettishly  declined,  and  a  few  minutes  later  Ben 
Larkin  saw  her  tripping  with  the  laird. 

But  he  captured  her  at  the  last,  when  the  dancers 
were  dispersing.  The  harvest-home  itself  was  over, 
but  there  was  something  further  in  connection  with  it 
that  Ben  Larkin  had  in  mind.  Mrs.  Martin,  who 
should  have  been  at  the  celebration,  was  confined  at 
home  with  the  "  rheumatics,"  as  she  put  it,  and  the 
[120] 


Love  or  Duty? 

girl's  escort  had  been  left  to  her  father  and  the  host 
of  other  lasses  who  would  be  homeward  bound  for 
Morag.  Larkin,  however,  adroitly  bore  her  off  alone, 
determined  to  profit  by  his  opportunity. 

The  short  distance  to  the  gate  of  the  cottage  with 
the  flagstaff  was  passed  over  in  significant  silence. 
Larkin  had  only  one  thing  to  say,  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  others.  He  would  have  talked  out  that  one  thing, 
but  he  felt  all  at  once  that  the  time  was  unpropitious. 
What  he  had  to  say  had  been  all  cut  and  dried  in  his 
mind,  but  the  incident  of  the  last  dance  had  upset  his 
calculations. 

At  the  gate  he  took  her  hand,  having  decided  that, 
after  all,  "  Good-night "  would  be  sufficient  for  the 
occasion. 

The  touch  of  her  fingers  sent  all  his  ideas  flying, 
and  he  could  only  blurt  out: 

"  You  are  angry  with  me,  Grizel?  I  was  so  happy 
until  the — until  the  last.  What  did  I  do?  Just  tell 
me." 

"  Angry  at  you  ?  "  she  echoed.  "  Why  should  I 
be  angry  at  you  ?  " 

She  impatiently  tried  to  draw  away  her  hand,  but 
his  closed  firmly  over  it,  and  it  lingered. 

"  I — I'm  angry  at  myself,"  she  said,  with  a  queer 
gulp. 

"  Grizel ! "  he  said,  his  voice  deep  with  feeling, 
"  until  you  ran  off  and  left  me  like  that,  I  felt  that 
[121] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

between  you  and  me  there  would  be  no  need  for  words 
— that  you  would  know  before  I  spoke  what  was  in 
my  heart  to  say.  I  love  you,  lass,  and  if  you  love 
me  I'll  go  to  my  sleep  to-night  the  happiest  man  in 
Morag — the  proudest  man  in  the  king's  service. 
Grizel " 

Her  chin  hung  low  on  her  bosom.  He  could  see  the 
glint  of  her  brown  hair  in  the  starlight,  and  hear  the 
soft,  deep  sound  of  her  breathing.  But  she  gave  no 
answer.  Nor  did  she  withdraw  her  hand.  Even 
when  his  arm  stole  around  her  shoulders  and  his  hand 
raised  her  face  to  his,  she  made  no  sound,  nor  did  she 
resist.  It  was  sweet  to  her;  and  though  she  felt 
shame,  something  bound  her  with  cords  of  joy. 

Yet  there  was  a  sting  of  regret.  She  had  known 
Smuggle-erie  so  long ;  and  though  he  had  hurt  her,  it 
seemed  hard,  unfair,  to  give  him  up  like  this. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  but  did  not  look  into  Ben's 
face.  Her  gaze  sought  the  stars  beyond  his  shoulder, 
and  the  memory  of  many  a  communing  with  them 
reminded  her  that  the  great  moment  of  a  woman's 
life  had  come.  She  must  answer — she  must  answer. 
And  by  her  answer  would  come  woe  or  weal  for  him 
and  for  her  and  for  Smuggle-erie. 

'  Tell  me,  Grizel,  is  it  that  you  love  someone  bet- 
ter? "  he  said.     "  Just  tell  me  and  I'll  go.     But  I 
think  you  do  love  me,  little  woman.     Look  at  me, 
Grizel — look  at  me  and  you'll  know." 
[122] 


Love  or  Duty? 

She  slowly  turned  her  eyes,  and  they  lifted  to  his. 
The  dim  starlight  fell  on  her  upturned  face,  and  he 
could  see  the  earnestness  of  her  gaze.  It  seemed  years 
while  he  watched  the  changing  thoughts  in  it.  Hers 
was  no  love  that  would  flash  up  and  die  as  quickly, 
but  a  deep  tide  that  moved  unseen  and  would  swell 
with  time. 

"  Grizel !  "  he  whispered. 

She  opened  her  lips  as  if  to  speak,  but  suddenly 
they  hung,  parted.  In  the  stillness,  to  their  strain- 
ing senses,  came  voices  from  the  cottage. 

Larkin  raised  his  eyes  impatiently.  The  window 
of  the  parlor  was  open,  for  the  night  was.  a  little 
sultry. 

Giles  Scrymegeour  was  speaking  within. 

"  The  ship  is  mine ! "  he  said,  raising  his  voice 
angrily. 

Captain  Grant  replied: 

"  I'll  fight  ye  on  that.  Even  so,  I'll  not  be  master 
of  it  with  another  dishonest  keg." 

"  Then  let  yer  lass  marry  Smuggle-erie,  and  I'll 
gie  ye  back  yer  signature  an'  make  the  lad  skipper." 

"  The  lass'll  not  marry  him  on  these  terms ! "  was 
the  sullen  response. 

"  Weel,"  said  the  voice  of  Scrymegeour,  after  a 
long  pause,  "  ye've  turned  gey  releegious  in  yer  auld 
age,  but  releegion  was  no  made  to  save  John  Grant 
and  put  his  freens  in  jail." 

[123] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  I  will  not  turn  informer,"  said  the  other  sullenly. 

"  Na?  "  sneered  old  Scryme.  "  It  would  be  a 
bonny  piece  o'  information  that  a'  man  wi'  your 
record  could  furnish,  nae  doot.  Ye  were  no  that 
parteeklar  in  the  past  aboot  yer  women  folk." 

"  I  have  suffered  for  it,"  was  the  monotone  re- 
sponse. 

"  Ye  micht  suffer  worse  again  if  a  wee  bird,  for  in- 
stance, was  to  whisper  in  your  lass's  ear  that  her 
father,  Captain  John  Grant,  was  Heather  Bloom, 
wanted  by  the  king's ' 

Giles  stopped,  as  if  frightened  himself  by  the  words 
he  was  thus  recklessly  using. 

There  came  a  guttural,  comprehending  "  Ah ! " 
from  Grant;  then  the  parlor  window  shut  suddenly, 
and  there  was  silence. 

Larkin's  arm  had  never  untwined  from  the  girl's 
body,  nor  had  her  eyes  shifted  from  his,  but  into  them 
had  come  a  look  of  dread — agony — despair. 

When  the  Fates  had  wrought  their  worst  upon  her, 
she  drew  herself  away  from  his  unresisting  clasp  and 
stared  unbelievingly  at  his  pain-stricken  face. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  whispered,  and  the  word  was  drawn  out 
like  a  moan.  "  Oh,  my  father !  My  father !  " 

He  looked  at  her.  His  throat  was  choked  with  the 
sense  of  the  great  wrong  she  had  suffered.  The  help- 
lessness of  his  own  position  paralyzed  him. 

"  Forgive  me,  lass !  "  he  suddenly  cried. 
[124] 


Love  or  Duty? 

"  It's  not  you — must  ask,"  she  sobbed.  "  Oh,  my 
father !  My  father !  "  And  with  a  weariness  of 
pain  in  her  voice,  she  turned  away  with  a  sobbed 
"  Good-night." 

"  Good-night,  lass,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

Then,  as  she  walked  toward  the  cottage,  he  looked 
up  at  the  stars,  and  laughed — bitterly. 


[125] 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    COUNCIL    IN    THE    CAVE 

BEN  LARKIN  staggered  back  to  the  coast-guard 
station  that  night  like  a  drunken  man.  Fate  had 
waved  a  sword  between  him  and  his  love.  In  that 
magic  flash  he  had  seen  the  impossibility  of  happiness 
with  Grizel,  and  at  the  same  time  the  blade  had  hewn 
a  clear-cut  path  to  his  duty. 

He  was  too  dazed  with  the  sudden  searing  of  his 
soul,  and  the  memory  of  the  girl's  agony,  to  form  any 
plan  of  action.  He  could  think  only  of  two  things 
— that  his  duty  was  to  arrest  Captain  John  Grant  in 
the  name  of  the  king,  and,  by  that  act,  inflict  agony 
upon  himself  and  upon  the  woman  he  loved. 

Alas,  for  himself  and  Grizel!  If  he  had  only 
lingered  a  moment  longer  by  the  gate  and  taken  his 
cue  to  action  from  what  he  would  have  seen,  it  might 
have  saved  a  world  of  trouble. 

He  was  hardly  out  of  sight  of  the  cottage  with  the 
flagstaff  before  the  door  opened  and  Giles  Scryme- 
geour  came  out  followed  by  Heather  Bloom. 

The  miser  looked  carefully  about  to  see  that  they 
[126] 


The  Council  in  the  Cave 

were  not  observed;  then  the  two  men  started  in  the 
direction  of  the  Bull  Rock. 

Neither  spoke  a  word,  but  their  footsteps  went  by 
mutual  understanding  of  the  destination.  Giles 
walked  with  the  nervous,  light  step  of  a  man  who  is 
keyed  up  by  past  events  and  eager  to  get  done  with 
future  ones.  His  companion  strode  along  with  his 
head  sunk  on  his  chest,  like  one  who  hates  what  he  is 
doing,  but  has  decided  to  do  it. 

They  came  to  the  abandoned  lodge  by  the  gate. 
The  last  of  the  merrymakers  had  straggled  home, 
and  the  castle  grounds  were  as  still  as  on  any  other 
night  of  the  year,  when  not  one  in  a  thousand  of  the 
countryside  would  have  ventured  near  the  "  haunted  " 
lodge. 

Old  Scryme  gave  the  whistle,  and,  at  the 
response,  they  marched  up  to  the  door  of  the 
"  deserted  "  house,  which  was  opened  quickly  to  admit 
them. 

Without  any  ado,  Scrymegeour  and  Heather 
Bloom  stepped  inside,  climbed  down  the  ladder  to  the 
cave,  and  an  unseen  sentinel  closed  the  trap-door 
after  them. 

Inside  the  cave,  there  were  half  a  dozen  smugglers 
sitting  upon  old  boxes  and  barrels  around  a  keg,  upon 
which  were  a  bottle  and  glasses  and  a  tallow  dip. 
Among  the  men  were  Smuggle-erie,  Grogblossom,  and 
the  Red  Mole,  the  latter  having  the  appearance  of  in- 
[127] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

toxication.  They  rose  to  a  man  as  Heather  Bloom 
appeared. 

"  Well !  "  the  big  sea-master  growled.  "  What's 
all  this  stage  play  about?  What's  this  council  for? 
Have  none  of  you  any  understanding,  or  are  my 
brains  unusually  sharp?  As  I  take  it,  the  stuff  will 
leave  Cothouse  to-morrow  night — or  to-night,  I  sup- 
pose— at  twelve  o'clock,  which  will  bring  it  here  at 
one,  or  a  bit  later.  Smuggle-erie  will  see  it  through, 
and  the  Thistle  Down  will  sail  at  dawn.  Is  that  clear 
enough,  or  must  I  sit  here  all  night  and  drive  it  into 
you?" 

Heather  Bloom  topped  his  sarcasm  with  a  curse. 
The  Red  Mole  looked  sleepily  across  at  Giles  Scryme- 
•geour,  who  flashed  him  a  knowing,  but  nervous  grin. 
Smuggle-erie's  brows  knitted,  and  he  glanced  from 
the  king  of  smugglers  to  the  miser.  He  saw  at  once 
that  there  had  been  a  conflict. 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir ! "  said  he  soothingly.  "  It's  all 
clear.  But  we  don't  want  any  risk  about  this — 
especially  this." 

"  Aye,  this — especially  this ! "  Heather  Bloom 
ripped  out.  "  Men  of  the  Thistle  Down  !  "  And  he 
addressed  them  all  in  a  comprehensive  wave  of  his 
hand.  "  Understand  what  I  have  to  say : 

"  You  have  served  me,  and  those  behind  me,  and 
yourselves,  pretty  well  in  the  last  twenty  years. 
We've  established  for  ourselves  a  reputation  that  has 
[128] 


The  Council  in  the  Cave 

sent  better  men  to  the  gallows.  My  schooner  has  at 
various  times  shown  a  creditable  pair  of  heels  to  the 
government's  craft.  I  personally  have  stood  on  the 
poop  of  my  ship,  toasted  the  damnation  of  the 
king,  and  flung  the  glass  at  the  revenue  officer's 
head. 

"  Very  good !  Very  admirable !  But,  once  and  for 
all,  that's  done  with.  If,  after  to-night,  the  Thistle 
Down  sails  again  with  John  Grant  as  master,  it  will 
be  with  an  honest  cargo  and  an  honest  crew.  I'll  no 
more  see  my  girl  dance  to  the  tune  of  her  father's 
crime."  This  with  a  savage  glance  at  Smuggle-erie. 
"  I'll  no  more  yield  to  a  worm  in  distorted  human 
shape  who  drives  me  to  sea  on  the  innocence  of  my 
lass.  You're  a  bad  lot — and  I've  been  the  worst 
of  ye — but  I've  always  found  that  you  were  men,  in 
spite  of  your  failings.  I  put  it  to  you  as  men :  Would 
you  force  a  man  to  commit  a  crime  with  the  threat 
of  babbling  his  former  crimes  to  his  daughter — my 
daughter,  Grizel  Grant,  who  thinks  her  father,  John 
Grant,  a  pillar  of  respectability,  while  all  the  time  he 
is  a  miserable,  thieving,  tax-dodger,  slaving  under 
the  mortgages  of  that  slimy  eel  you  see  there  oozing 
with  fear?  " 

Heather  Bloom's  finger  pointed  straight  at  Giles 
Scrymegeour,  whose  face  was  set  in  a  sickly 
grin,  in  an  attempt  to  pass  over  the  matter  as  a 
jest. 

[129] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

The  smugglers  looked  at  the  miser  and  growled 
their  disgust.  Smuggle-erie  gave  a  short  laugh  and 
said: 

"  Suppose  we  tie  a  stone  to  nunky's  feet  and  drop 
him  in  the  pool,  as  he  was  for  doing  with  me  twelve 
years  ago  ?  " 

The  suggestion  met  with  some  approval.  Old 
Scryme's  grin  became  more  sickly.  Grant  rapped 
his  knuckles  on  a  barrel-head. 

"  If  ever  I  was  near  tempted  to  murder,  or  ap- 
prove murder  of,  anything,  it  is  now,"  he  went  on. 
"  But  enough  of  this  !  I've  passed  my  word,  and  I'll 
keep  it.  I'll  run  the  Thistle  Down  and  her  cargo 
through.  But  this  is  the  last  time.  And  if  any  man 
has  anything  to  say,  let  him  say  it  now,  or  for- 
ever after  hold  his  peace!  If  he  doesn't,  he'll 
have  the  man  that  was  Heather  Bloom  to  reckon 
with!" 

One  of  the  smugglers  got  to  his  feet, 
urged  by  a  few  of  the  others,  and  saluted  awk- 
wardly. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  we're  mighty  sorry  to  lose  ye — 
me  an'  the  rest.  Ye've  been  a  good  seaman  and  a 
better  smuggler.  What  you  said  was  always  the 
word  for  us.  An'  as  for  anything  else,  we'll  stan'  by 
ye,  cap'n — in  spite  o'  him ! "  The  speaker  gave  a 
vicious  nod  in  the  direction  of  Old  Scryme  and  sat 
down. 

[130] 


The  Council  in  the  Cave 

"  Thanks !  "  said  the  captain  shortly.  "  Now, 
then,  to  business !  " 

The  bringing  of  the  whisky  from  Cothouse  was 
gone  over,  and  the  safest  mode  of  conveying  it  aboard 
without  suspicion.  From  the  discussion,  it  was  ap- 
parent that  the  Thistle  Down  was  bound  ostensibly 
for  Bristol,  but  that  there  was  a  rendezvous  off  a 
lonely  part  of  the  English  coast  for  the  transfer  of 
the  illicit  liquor.  This  also  was  fully  gone  into,  as 
was  the  matter  of  the  tides. 

"  The  only  difference  this  trip,"  said  Smuggle-erie, 
"  is  the  extra  trouble  to  be  expected  from  the  revenue 
in  the  Firth.  What  about  the  coast-guard,  and  Mr. 
Horneycraft,  and  the  officer  with  the  brass  buttons? 
Cookson,  of  course,  don't  count.  The  dominie  always 
spends  Sunday  night  with  him,  and  once  these  two 
are  together  you  could  take  away  the  coast-guard 
station,  roof,  telescope,  and  all,  without  interrupting 
old  Jack." 

"  Horneycraft?  "  said  Heather  Bloom.  "  Remem- 
ber, I  can  have  no  possibility  of  a  trap  this  time. 
What  about  Horneycraft?" 

There  was  silence,  broken  by  Smuggle-erie. 

"Where  is  Horneycraft?  He  hasn't  been  near 
Morag  for  three  days.  Alec  was  on  his  track. 
What  about  Horneycraft,  Sandy  ?  " 

Alec,  or  Sandy,  a  young,  light-haired  smuggler, 
scratched  his  head  and  looked  confused. 
[131] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  I  canna  rightly  say,"  he  said.  "  For  two  days 
he  was  prowlin'  up  aroond  the  Red  Mole's  place,  as 
the  Red  Mole  kens." 

"  What  about  him,  Red  Heid  ?  "  demanded  Smug- 
gle-erie,  roughly  shaking  the  Red  Mole,  who  had 
fallen  into  a  drunken  sleep. 

"  Eh  ? "  said  he  stupidly,  half  waking  up. 
"  Wha?  Hoarney craft  ?  He'll  no  bother  ye.  He's 
dead!  " 

"Eh!"  thundered  Heather  Bloom.  "What  is 
that  man  saying?  " 

"  Eh?  "  cried  the  Red  Mole,  waking  up  to  his  full 
senses.  "What  was  ye  sayin'?  Aw — Hoarney- 
craft!  I  dinna  ken.  How  should  I  ken?  But  he'll 
no  bother  ye.  Archibald'll  atten'  t'  that."  And  he 
fell  asleep  again. 

Heather  Bloom  looked  from  the  drunken  animal  to 
the  men  around  the  cave.  His  eye  fell  upon  Giles 
Scrymegeour,  who  was  grinning  and  wiping  his  lips 
with  his  handkerchief. 

"You  were  at  Cothouse  to-night?  " 

"  I  was  not!  "  asserted  the  miser. 

"  Eh?  "  muttered  the  Red  Mole. 

"  Did  ye  murder  the  man  ?  "  asked  Smuggle-erie  at 
playful  random. 

"  Murder !  "  gasped  Giles.     "  Guid  forgie  us,  what 
an  awfu'  word!     I  tell  ye  I  wasna  at  the  Cothouse 
maseP.     But  trust  Archibald — trust  Archibald !  " 
[132] 


The  Council  in  the  Cave 

The  matter  was  dropped,  and  Lieutenant  Ben  Lar- 
kin  was  the  new  subject. 

"There,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  Heather 
Bloom,  "  is  the  only  man  I'm  afeared  o'.  What  he 
does  not  ken,  I  am  certain  he  suspects.  He  is  the 
man  whose  doings  must  be  watched." 


[133] 


CHAPTER  XI 

SMUGGLE-ERIE   FALLS    FROM   GRACE 

WHATEVER  plan  Smuggle-erie  had  in  mind  for 
the  outwitting  of  Ben  Larkin — if,  indeed,  he  had 
any — was  upset  next  day  by  a  curt  note  from  Grizel 
Grant.  It  was  inclosed  in  an  envelope,  and  was 
handed  to  him  by  Daft  Tommy,  who  was  Morag's 
"  ne'er-do-weel,"  save  in  the  matter  of  simple  errands. 
The  note  read: 

Be  so  good  as  to  meet  me  by  the  castle  gate  after  kirk  service 
to-night.  I  have  discovered  something  upon  which  you  can 
further  enlighten  me  and,  besides,  I  feel  that  you  and  I  should 
better  understand  each  other  before  I  speak  to  my  father. 

GRIZEL. 

"  Now,  I  wonder  if  this  was  meant  for  me  or 
somebody  else?  "  Smuggle-erie  asked  himself,  as  he 
stared  at  the  odd  message  and  then  glanced  back 
at  the  slack-jawed,  dull-eyed  idiot  who  had  brought 
it.  "  Who  gave  you  this,  Tommy  ?  " 

"  Miss  Girzie,"  said  Daft  Tommy,  chuckling  and 
grinning.  "An*  she  gied  me  a  bawbee  an'  promist 
to  marry  me — oh,  aye!  She  promist  to  marry  me, 
[134] 


Smuggle-erie  Falls  from  Grace 

an'  I've  got  witnesses  to  prove  it — witnesses  to  prove 
it!" 

Smuggle-erie  paid  no  attention  to  the  lad's  de- 
lusion, but  frowned  at  the  letter  on  his  knees.  He 
was  seated  on  an  overturned  boat  on  the  beach,  and 
as  he  read  the  message  for  the  fourth  time  he  slowly 
nodded  his  head. 

"  Here ! "  said  he,  cutting  a  chew  of  tobacco  and 
tossing  it  to  Daft  Tommy.  "  Tell  Miss  Girzie  that 
you  gave  me  the  letter  and  that  I  said  *  All 
right.'  " 

With  many  a  chuckle  Daft  Tommy  went  off  with 
the  answer,  and  Smuggle-erie  was  left  with  the  note 
on  his  knees.  The  thing  was  a  mystery  to  him.  If 
it  had  been  intended  for  his  eyes,  then  its  contents 
were  as  Greek,  although,  if  it  was  to  be  accepted 
just  as  it  read,  Smuggle-erie  was  sure  that  some- 
thing had  happened  at  the  cottage  with  the  flagstaff. 
It  could  only  be  that  Grizel's  eyes  had  been  opened 
to  the  smuggling. 

Against  that  was  the  idea  that  the  note  had  been 
intended  for  Ben  Larkin,  and  as  Smuggle-erie  reread 
the  missive  with  this  in  mind  he  bit  his  lip  savagely. 
One  way  or  another,  Larkin  figured  largely  in  it.  If 
Grizel  had  discovered  the  secret  of  the  smugglers, 
then  it  was  time  '  finis  '  be  written  to  Larkin's  love- 
making,  and  if  it  was  merely  that  the  note  had  been 

delivered  into  the  wrong  hand 

[135] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  So  that's  where  they  are ! "  thought  Smuggle- 
erie. 

Having  accepted  the  mistaken  delivery  idea  for 
the  moment  and  abandoned  himself  to  a  fit  of  savage 
jealousy,  Smuggle-erie's  next  thought  was  what  he 
should  do  with  the  note.  Send  it  to  Larldn  I  Well, 
it  might  not  be  intended  for  Larkin.  Send  it  back 
to  Grizel?  It  would  be  risking  an  insult.  Go  and 
ask  her  for  whom  she  had  intended  it?  And  if  she 
should  say  "  Larkin  "  ?  Smuggle-erie  shrank  from 
the  humiliation.  Then,  with  a  laugh  at  his  own 
stupidity,  he  picked  up  the  envelope  which  he  had 
thrown  upon  the  sand.  Upon  it  was  written  in  a 
steady,  schoolgirl  hand :  "  Mr.  Dick  Scryme- 
geour." 

Of  course,  it  was  for  him !  Then  what  did  it  mean  ? 
His  conscience — the  conscience  of  the  shrewd  rather 
than  of  the  guilty — told  him  that  it  could  be  but 
one  thing  she  had  discovered.  But  how?  Was  it 
possible  that  Old  Scryme  had  enlightened  her  a  little 
in  order  to  force  Grant  to  sail  the  contraband  to 
England?  Or  had  the  miserly  demon  done  it  to 
bring  about  Grizel's  marriage  with  Smuggle-erie, 
so  that  his  grip  might  be  tightened  upon  all  con- 
cerned? After  the  first  flash  of  rage  at  this  possi- 
bility, Smuggle-erie  dismissed  the  idea  as  both  un- 
likely and  unprofitable.  No!  Grizel  had  discovered 
something  by  accident,  or  possibly  through  Larkin. 
[136] 


Smuggle-erie  Falls  from  Grace 

Smuggle-erie  smiled.  If  this  were  so,  the  revenue 
officer  had  scored  a  point — his  first — and  a  doubtful 
one  at  that.  Smuggle-erie  could  play  that  game, 
too.  He  remembered  his  promise  to  "  attend  to 
Larkin,"  and  now  a  plan  began  to  take  shape  in  his 
mind. 

True,  the  plan  was  not  a  highly  honorable  one. 
Indeed,  it  was  the  very  opposite;  but  Smuggle-erie 
would  not  shrink  from  it  if  he  were  at  all  sure  that 
Ben  Larkin  had  whispered  his  suspicions  in  the  girl's 
ear.  To  his  mind  two  wrongs  could  easily  make  a 
right. 

He  read  the  note  again,  folded  it  very  carefully, 
and  held  it  between  his  forefinger  and  thumb,  the 
while  he  looked  blankly  across  the  calm  Firth.  He 
had  read  of  the  thing  in  a  book — the  thing  he  con- 
templated ;  he  had  read  of  it  often,  without  believing 
that  it  could  ever  present  itself  in  life  as  a  matter 
easy  of  execution.  But  he  never  remembered  having 
read  of  such  favorable  circumstances  as  presented 
themselves  in  this  case.  The  addressing  of  the  en- 
velope would  be  an  easy  matter.  Surely  Lieutenant 
Ben  Larkin  had  not  progressed  so  far  in  his  love- 
making  that  he  was  minutely  acquainted  with  her 
handwriting.  And,  then,  the  letter  itself  was  pre- 
fixed with  no  name,  nor  did  it  contain  any  subject- 
matter  that  might  not  have  been  addressed  to  a 
perfect  stranger.  Indeed,  it  was  the  tone  of  it  that 
[137] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

had  made  Smuggle-erie  think  for  a  moment  that  it 
was  not  intended  for  him. 

He  sat  on  a  boat  for  a  half -hour,  his  brows  knitted 
and  his  underlip  stuck  out.  It  never  occurred  to  him 
that  it  would  be  dishonorable  to  trap  Larkin  with 
Grizel's  note;  but,  nevertheless,  he  was  uneasy  about 
it.  It  was  not  his  kind  of  fighting;  that  was  all. 
He  would  have  scorned  to  strike  a  man  when  down, 
or  to  hit  an  antagonist  below  the  belt  in  a  fist-fight. 
While  his  uneasiness  over  what  he  contemplated  may 
have  been  really  an  instinctive  aversion  to  a  mean 
act,  yet  his  untutored  chivalry  failed  to  understand 
or  to  concern  itself  with  more  than  the  probable  suc- 
cess of  the  enterprise. 

Finally,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  away 
toward  Giles  Scrymegeour's  shop,  where  "  nunky  " 
was  presently  mystified  by  his  usually  boisterous 
"  nephew's  "  silence  and  his  diligent  destruction  of 
envelopes  and  quills.  Smuggle-erie  labored  over  that 
envelope  address  for  an  hour,  his  forehead  damp  with 
perspiration  and  his  tongue  hanging  from  the  corner 
of  his  mouth  as  he  toiled  with  the  intricacies  of  the 
"  i-e-u  "  in  "  lieutenant." 

That  it  was  a  monument  of  misspent  energy  he 
would  have  realized  had  he  seen  Larkin,  an  hour  or 
two  later,  tear  the  envelope  open  and  cast  it  aside. 
The  lieutenant  glanced  impatiently  over  the  message, 
for  he  was  in  no  good  humor,  but  suddenly  his  face 
[138] 


The  coast-guard  men  and  the  cutter  would  patrol 
the  Firth  from  dusk 

Pa^e  1*» 


Smuggle-erie  Falls  from  Grace 

brightened  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  magic  word — 
"  Grizel."  He  sat  down  in  the  coast-guard  station 
and  puzzled  long  and  deeply  over  the  message. 

She  had  discovered  something  upon  which  he  could 
further  enlighten  her — further !  Of  course,  it  was 
the  matter  of  her  father.  He  reflected  that  she 
might  have  spared  him  the  pain  of  that.  His  position 
was  bad  enough,  and  his  duty  was  clear  enough. 
But  she  "  felt  "  that  he  and  she  "  should  better  under- 
stand each  other  "  before  she  spoke  to  her  father. 
She  could  not  mean  love.  That  were  preposterous 
under  the  circumstances. 

" '  You  and  I  should  better  understand  each  other 
before  I  speak  to  my  father,'  "  he  echoed  mentally. 
"  What  can  she  mean  ?  It  can't  be  that  she  would 
have  me — that  she  would  trade  with  me !  '  Under- 
stand each  other  ?  '  *  Understand '  The  thing 

is  impossible,  anyway ! "  With  that  he  flung  the 
letter  on  the  table  in  the  coast-guard  parlor  and 
made  up  his  mind  not  to  think  more  of  it. 

He  would  not  keep  the  appointment.  No  profit 
could  come  by  it,  but  pain  to  both.  His  duty  was 
clear,  although  the  way  to  it  was  not  yet  free  of 
obstacle.  But  his  plan  had  been  formed  before  this 
message  arrived. 

The  Thistle  Down  was  to  sail  at  dawn,  with  the 
tide.  The  coast-guard  men  and  the  cutter  would 
patrol  Morag  and  the  Firth  from  dusk  until  the 
[139] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

schooner  was  out  of  sight.  Of  one  thing  Larkin 
was  certain;  that  the  Thistle  Down  would  sail  with 
every  man  of  her  crew  aboard,  or  satisfactorily 
accounted  for — especially  Smuggle-erie !  Without 
that  man  aboard,  the  schooner  should  not  weigh 
anchor.  He  was  determined  on  this  point.  It  would 
be  smuggling  of  an  amazing  order  which  could  escape 
the  vigilance  of  the  coast-guard  this  night. 

So  far  he  had  not  communicated  his  orders  to  Cook- 
son  or  to  the  men.  He  was  still  waiting  with  im- 
patience and  a  growing  uneasiness  for  the  reappear- 
ance of  Horneycraft.  Where  was  the  man?  He 
had  been  missing  for  two  days,  although  Larkin  had 
heard  it  rumored  that  he  was  seen  around  the  Cot- 
house  but  twenty-four  hours  before.  What  was  the 
man  doing?  It  was  the  thought  that  possibly  the 
long-nosed  collector  had  discovered  something  which 
stayed  the  lieutenant  on  the  decision  of  a  definite 
plan  of  action.  He  had  no  desire  to  conflict  with 
Horneycraft,  if  it  could  be  avoided. 

He  picked  up  the  letter,  and  read  it  over  and  over. 
He  wondered  what  the  girl  could  have  to  say.  It 
could  be  nothing  against  her  father  that  she  had 
discovered.  He  knew  Grizel  too  well  to  believe  that 
she  would  reveal  anything  against  her  parent, 
Heather  Bloom  though  he  was.  Then,  what  could 
it  be? 

When  six  o'clock  came  that  evening,  Larkin  was 
[140] 


Smuggle-erie  Falls  from  Grace 

impatiently  walking  up  and  down  on  the  strip  of 
sand  below  the  barren  rocks  where  the  coast-guard 
station  stood.  The  old  bell  of  the  parish  kirk  was 
humming  over  the  bay  and  echoing  among  the  hills. 
It  brought  back  to  Ben's  mind  the  parlor  of  the 
cottage  with  the  flagstaff,  on  the  previous  Sunday 
evening,  and  in  his  mind  he  presently  heard  the 
tender  passion  of  the  little  harmonium  and  saw  the 
firelight  glint  of  Grizel's  brown  hair  and  pink  cheek. 

"  Meet  me  by  the  castle  gate  after  kirk  service 
to-night!  " 

The  words  echoed  in  his  brain  with  the  humming 
of  the  kirk  bell.  He  could  imagine  her  walking 
demurely  through  Morag  at  that  moment  with  her 
book  of  psalms  and  paraphrases,  and  presently  her 
voice  would  join  with  the  others  in  praise  of  her 
Maker.  He  knew  now  that  she  had  been  innocent 
of  all  knowledge  of  the  smugglers ;  and,  knowing  that, 
was  it  not  his  duty  to  obey  the  order  of  the  message? 
It  must  be  something  that  he  ought  to  know;  he 
felt  that,  otherwise,  the  delicacy  of  the  sweet  lass 
would  have  forbidden  that  letter. 

He  stopped  in  his  walk,  and  in  another  moment 
he  had  decided.  He  would  go,  and  trust  the  inter- 
view to  yield  some  guiding-point  for  the  night's 
action.  It  might  be  something  about  Horneycraft — 
a  message  from  Horneycraft,  even.  In  any  event  it 
would  be  but  an  hour's  delay.  During  that  time  the 

[141] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

smugglers  could  have  little  chance  to  get  away  with 
a  contraband  boat,  for  it  was  still  the  long  light  of 
the  Indian  summer  evenings.  It  would  hardly  be 
dark  before  nine  o'clock.  The  cutter  lay  ready  by 
the  gangplank,  and  the  crew  smoked  their  pipes  while 
awaiting  orders  in  the  coast-guard  station. 

The  kirk  bell  stopped  as  Larkin  retired  to  his 
room  and  prepared  himself  for  the  meeting  with 
Grizel.  He  smiled  as  he  remarked  his  own  little 
vanity  in  the  details  of  dress,  and  he  was  unashamed 
to  admit  to  himself  that  his  heart  beat  a  higher  note 
at  the  prospect  of  seeing  her  again,  for  weal  or 
woe. 

He  took  a  long  time  to  dress,  so  that  when  he  left 
the  coast-guard  house,  smart  in  his  bright  uniform, 
and  stepped  jauntily  toward  Morag  on  his  way  to  the 
castle  gate,  the  good  folk  were  coming  from  the  kirk. 
Toward  the  coast-guard  station,  arm-in-arm,  came 
the  dominie  and  old  Cookson,  both  of  them  already 
involved  in  lore  and  history.  Ben  Larkin  passed  a 
few  words  of  instruction  to  the  coast-guard  an'd, 
with  a  respectful  salute  to  the  dominie,  passed  on. 

As  he  went  through  Morag,  he  saw,  some  way 
ahead  of  him,  the  neat  little  figure  that  had  become 
the  center  of  his  life.  She  did  not  stop  at  the  gate 
of  the  cottage  with  the  flagstaff,  except  to  cast  a 
glance  over  her  shoulder.  Whether  she  saw  and 
recognized  Larkin,  he  had  no  means  of  knowing, 

[  142  J 


Smuggle-erie  Falls  from  Grace 

but  she  quickened  her  step  and  walked  rather  hur- 
riedly toward  the  castle  gate. 

Larkin  wondered  at  this.  Why  could  she  not 
speak  to  him  by  the  cottage  gate?  Why  all  this 
mystery?  He  suddenly  remembered,  with  an  uneasy 
qualm,  that  the  castle  gate  was  by  the  Bull  Rock, 
the  scene  of  his  previous  misadventure.  He  won- 
dered if  the  precedent  might  be  taken  as  an  omen. 

The  coast  road,  as  it  neared  the  castle  gate  and 
the  lodge,  curved  somewhat,  so  that  Ben  lost  sight 
of  Grizel  until  he  was  almost  within  speaking  distance 
of  her.  Then,  even  in  the  dim  light  of  dusk,  he 
noticed  an  attempt  on  her  part  to  conceal  herself 
in  the  shadow  of  the  broken-down  estate  wall.  He 
advanced  swiftly  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  You  sent  for  me,  Grizel?  " 

She  drew  back  with  a  sudden,  frightened  widening 
of  her  eyes,  which  he  noticed  at  the  moment  and 
did  not  fail  to  remember  later. 

"  I — sent  for  you  ?  "  she  faltered. 

"  Did  you  not  ?  "  he  asked,  drawing  back  stiffly. 

"  I  don't  understand.  I — you "  she  stam- 
mered. 

Before  he  could  say  anything,  a  cloud  fell  across 
his  vision  and  he  experienced  the  dry,  disagreeable 
sensation  of  cloth  enveloping  his  head.  Simultane- 
ously his  arms  were  pinioned  behind  him  and  a  voice 
said  quietly: 

[  143  1 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Don't  make  a  noise !     Nobody  means  you  harm." 

For  answer,  Ben  Larkin  exerted  all  his  strength 
and  succeeded  in  flinging  off  the  grip  that  held  his 
arms  pinioned.  He  threw  his  hands  to  his  head  in 
an  effort  to  get  rid  of  the  smothering  cloth,  but  at 
the  first  sign  of  a  struggle  he  found  himself  in  the 
embrace  of  two  or  three  men. 

The  struggle  lasted  less  than  a  minute.  He  was 
conscious,  through  it  all,  of  a  strangely  familiar 
voice,  whispering: 

"Don't  hurt  him!  Don't  hurt  him!"  Then, 
when  it  was  apparent  that  Larkin  had  no  intention 
of  yielding,  the  same  voice  said :  "  Knock  him  on  the 
head,  then,  but — careful !  " 

The  next  moment  Larkin  experienced  a  dull  shock 
in  the  back  of  his  neck.  He  fell  into  abysmal  dark- 
ness, through  which  a  bitter,  despairing  voice  cried : 

"  Ben !     Ben !     Oh,   forgive   me !     Forgive  me !  " 


[144] 


CHAPTER  XII 

A    THOROUGH    UNDERSTANDING 

"  YES,  sir !  "  cried  the  coast-guard,  bringing  down 
his  fist  with  an  emphatic  crack  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair.  "  Orders  is  orders,  and  if  the  adm'ral  says, 
'  Stand  by  till  I  come  alongside,'  stand  by  it  is !  But 
where  in  thunder  is  the  lad?  One  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, sir ! " 

Jack  Cookson  glared  at  the  old  clock,  whose  pendu- 
lum was  wagging  relentlessly  through  the  hours,  and 
snorted  with  all  his  might  and  main. 

"  First  Mister  Horneycraft.  Now  the  adm'ral. 
By  thunder !  Pll  be  missing  next !  " 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  dominie,  who  sat  up  with  the 
coast-guard,  sharing  his  alarm  when  a  cessation  of 
story-telling  had  reminded  them  that  the  hour  was 
late  and  Larkin  still  absent ;  "  indeed,  is  it  not  our 
duty — your  duty  rather — to  institute  a  search 
party?  " 

"  Sir !  "  snorted  Cookson.     "  With  all  due  respecks 

for  book-larnin'   an'  sich,  do  you  dare  to  tell  me 

what  my  dooty  is?     Orders  is  orders,  sir,  and  here 

I  sit  till  the  mornin'  watch,  or  until  the  adm'ral  comes 

[145] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

aboard.     Strike  my  colors,  sir?     Do  you  take  me 
for  a  Frenchman?  " 

"  Orders  is  orders,"  said  the  dominie  wisely.  "  In- 
deed, I  do  not  doubt  but  what  you  may  be  in  the 
right  of  it,  my  friend.  England's  greatest  victories 
— leaving  aside  England's  greatest  blunders — are 
due  to  this  great  sense  of  the  written  rule,  as  applied 
to  duty.  So  it  was  with  the  Romans  and  the  Spar- 
tans. But  there  is  no  rule,  my  friend,  which  is  not 
susceptible  of  exception,  and  something  tells  me  that 
in  this  case  your  orders  are  in  conflict  with  your 
duty.  It  is  now  six  hours  since  Lieutenant  Larkin 
left  the  station " 

"  Sir !  "  Cookson  thundered.  "  That  may  be  book- 
larnin' — an'  for  book-larnin'  an'  sich  there's  none  has 
such  a  mighty  respeck  as  John  Cookson,  quartermas- 
ter, sir,  in  the  service  of  his  majesty,  God  bless  'im ! — 
but  the  bookedest  larn'dest  professor  in  the  whole 
country  can't  tell  me  there's  a  difference  atween 
orders  an'  dooty." 

"  You  misconceive  me ! "  the  dominie  protested. 
"  One's  orders  may,  on  an  occasion,  conflict  with  one's 
personal  sense  of  duty.  For  instance " 

"What  do  you  know  of  conflict?"  roared  Cook- 
son.  "  I  tell  you,  conflict  or  pipin'  times  o'  peace, 
dooty  Is  dooty  and  orders  is  orders!  " 

There  came  a  sudden,  feeble  beating  at  the  door. 

"  What's  that?  "  said  the  dominie  with  a  start. 
[146] 


A  Thorough  Understanding 

"  What's  what  ?  "  the  coast-guard  bellowed.  "  Just 
what  I  say,  and  let  it  rest  at  that.  Dooty,  sir " 

Even  Cookson  stopped.  The  feeble  beating  at 
the  door  was  suddenly  reenforced  by  a  faint  voice — 
a  woman's  voice — crying : 

"  Mr.  Cookson !  Admiral  Cookson !  Open  the 
door ! " 

A  moment  later  Larkin  staggered  into  the  parlor 
of  the  coast-guard  station  alone.  His  uniform  was 
covered  with  mud  and  slightly  torn.  His  face  was 
pale  as  a  dead  man's,  but  his  eyes  were  bright  with 
the  insane  glow  of  a  disordered  intellect.  He  swung 
on  one  heel  for  a  moment,  then  lurched  forward  into 
the  dominie's  arms. 

"  Muster  the  men !  "  he  gasped.  "  The  smugglers 
are  out ! " 

"  Smugglers ! "  roared  Cookson,  blowing  like  a 
grampus.  "  You  mean  to  tell  me  that  they  have 
dared  to  strike  down  a  king's  officer  ?  What  ho ! 
Coast-guard !  Turn  out !  Turn  out !  " 

The  dominie  staggered  under  the  weight  of  Larkin 
and  managed  to  get  him  on  the  settle.  The  lieuten- 
ant opened  his  eyes  and  smiled  up  in  the  kind  old  face. 

"  Here  I  am  again,"  he  whispered.  "  Sunday's 
my  unlucky  day  and — and — that's  my  unlucky  place. 
Tell  Cookson — the  lodge — Bull  Rock."  His  eyes 
closed  and  his  face  took  on  a  gray-blue  pallor. 

"  Mmmmm !  "  hummed  the  dominie.  "  I  shall  ex- 
[147] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

amine  his  skull.     But,  first — plenty  of  air — plenty 
of  air." 

Having  loosened  the  sick  man's  collar,  he  turned 
and  opened  all  the  windows,  through  which  came  the 
ruffle  of  oars  and  the  tramping  of  the  coast-guards' 
feet.  The  dominie,  in  the  professional  preoccupation 
of  the  moment,  forgot  to  give  Cookson  the  instruc- 
tions he  had  received,  and  only  remembered  them  some 
time  afterward,  when  Ben  Larkin,  opening  his  eyes, 
said: 

"  And  find  that  woman — yes,  find  that  woman ! 
She  went  away  !  " 

Two  hours  later,  when  Cookson  with  his  men  re- 
turned, empty-handed  and  with  no  information,  the 
lieutenant  was  dozing  under  the  influence  of  a  drug 
the  dominie  had  administered. 

"  Nothing  serious,"  said  the  old-fashioned  physi- 
cian, smiling.  "  He  has  had  a  blow  on  the  head,  but 
I  find  no  fracture,  although  sometimes  the  best  may 
err  on  that  point.  He  will  have  fever — yes,  he 
will  have  fever.  That,  I  fancy,  will  be  the 
worst." 

"  By  thunder ! "  stormed  the  coast-guard,  "  if 
ever  I  lay  hands  on  the  swabs,  I'll  keelhaul  'em  an' 
masthead  'em  and  hang  'em  in  chains  for  the  crows 
to  pick ! " 

Larkin  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Did  you  find  the  woman  ?  "  he  asked. 
[148] 


A  Thorough  Understanding 

"  The  woman  ? "  asked  the  dominie.  "  What 
woman  ?  " 

Larkin  sighed,  and  lay  still  for  a  minute  or  two 
with  closed  eyes. 

"  Grizel  Grant.  Her  father  is  Heather  Bloom," 
he  said  stonily.  "  She  betrayed  me — decoyed  me. 
She  brought  me  here." 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear ! "  said  the  dominie  soothingly. 
"  You  must  not  talk  like  that.  Sleep,  my  friend — 
try  to  sleep." 

The  coast-guard  sorrowfully  tapped  his  head. 
Larkin  was,  indeed,  half  delirious,  but  at  intervals 
he  so  harked  back  to  the  subject  that  the  dominie 
was  finally  moved  to  believe  the  patient  was  in  earnest. 

"  Arrest  the  master  of  the  Thistle  Down !  "  said 
Ben  Larkin  faintly.  "  Sequester  the  ship ' 

"  But  the  Thistle  Down's  gone !  "  said  Cookson. 
"  I  saw  her  weigh  ten  minutes  ago." 

The  lieutenant  groaned  and  turned  a  reproachful 
eye  upon  the  old  coast-guard. 

"  Cookson,"  said  he,  "  if  Horatio  Nelson  can  see 
you  now,  he's  blushing  for  his  old  quartermaster." 

The  coast-guard  stared  stupidly  at  the  sick  man 
for  a  moment.  Then,  across  his  face  came  a  look 
of  understanding,  and  tears  sprang  into  his  eyes. 

"  Adm'ral ! "  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  choked 
with  genuine  grief.  "  Keelhaul  me  f'r  a  lubber. 
Maybe  old  Jack  Cookson's  too  old  for  sarvice — it's 
[149] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

nigh  on  twenty-five  years  since  Trafalgar — but  I — 
I  done  my  b-best,  adm'ral,  and " 

"  Spoken  like  a  British  sailor,"  said  the  patient 
with  a  smile,  and  wearily  holding  out  his  hand. 
"  Forgive  me,  old  lad.  You  aren't  all  to  blame. 
I'm  beaten,  too." 

"Tut!  Tut!"  the  dominie  protested.  "This  is 
nonsense.  Get  out  of  here,  Cookson.  You,  my 
friend,  must  sleep." 

"  One  moment,"  said  Larkin.  "  Coast-guard,  find 
that  woman — find  Grizel  Grant — and  bring  her  to 
me — here !  " 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir !  "  said  Cookson,  saluting.  As  the 
poor,  old,  obsolete  sailor  went  out,  he  dashed  away 
a  tear  and  said :  "  I  believe  that's  all  I'm  good  for — 
overhaulin'  females.  But,"  he  added  to  himself,  by 
way  of  consolation,  "  I've  seen  things  in  my  day ! " 

It  was  nearly  noon  on  Monday  when  Larkin  awoke 
and  knew  that  he  had  been  outmaneuvered  for  the 
third  time.  The  Thistle  Down  was  gone.  That  was 
no  evidence.  It  had  been  announced  that  she  would 
sail  on  Monday  morning  with  the  tide.  He  had 
recognized  none  of  his  assailants  and,  although  the 
whole  thing  was  as  clear  as  day,  he  had  but  one 
witness  to  it  all — Grizel! 

When  it  was  discovered  that  he  was  fully  conscious, 
the  coast-guard  entered  the  room  and  touched  his 
[150] 


A  Thorough  Understanding 

forehead  in  salute.  He  had  been  waiting  outside  with 
Grizel  for  hours.  For  once  he  had  seen  the  conflict 
of  orders  and  duty  and  had  kept  the  girl  waiting 
until  the  lieutenant  should  have  had  the  full  benefit 
of  his  drugged  slumbers. 

"  Come  aboard,  sir ! "  he  said  humbly.  "  I've 
brought  Miss  Grizel,  sir." 

"  Bring  her  in." 

Grizel  presently  entered.  Her  face  was  pale  and 
drawn,  and  her  eyes  spoke  of  a  sleepless  night  and 
great  mental  pain.  He  could  not  bear  to  look  at 
her,  and  when  Jack  Cookson  would  have  retired,  he 
called  the  old  sailor  back,  for  he  feared  the  interview. 

"  Miss  Grant,"  he  said,  "  where  were  you  last 
night?" 

"  You  know,"  she  replied  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Did  you  see  the  smugglers?  " 

"  You  know  I  did." 

"  Could  you  point  them  out  if  you  saw  them 
again  ?  " 

"  I  could,"  she  replied,  after  a  moment,  and  with  a 
slight  weight  upon  the  "  could." 

"  Did  you  warn  them  after  I  had  mustered  the 
guard?  " 

"  No ! " 

"  Or  cause  them  to  be  warned?  " 

She  did  not  answer.  He  repeated  the  question. 
Then  she  said: 

[151] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  I  may  have  done  so,  unconsciously." 

"  After  you  helped  me  to  the  door  of  the  coast- 
guard, you  went  away.  Where  did  you  go  ?  " 

"  Why  must  I  answer  these  questions  ?  "  she  said, 
with  a  sudden  toss  of  her  head. 

"  By  your  answering  them  you  will  save  me  the 
pain  of " 

"  I  went  aboard  the  Thistle  Down  to  say  good-by 
to  my  father,"  she  interrupted. 

"  Thank  you.  You  see  I  do  not  suggest  even 
that  you  might  have  gone  with  the  purpose  of  warn- 
ing him." 

"  I  did  not  go  with  that  in  mind,  nor  did  I " 

"  That  will  do.  I  did  not  mean  it  as  a  question." 
He  suddenly  held  out  to  her  a  folded  slip  of  paper. 
"  Did  you  write  that?  "  he  asked  curiously. 

She  merely  glanced  at  it. 

"  I  wrote  it,"  she  said  simply,  her  eyes  dropping 
to  the  floor. 

**  At  least  one  other  person,  besides  yourself,  knew 
that  you  wrote  this  ?  "  he  said,  rather  than  asked. 

She  paused  before  answering.  It  was  on  the  tip 
of  her  tongue  to  correct  him  in  his  examination.  He 
had  missed  a  point.  Had  she  sent  it  him?  But 
she  kept  silence,  fearing  in  her  heart  for  her  father, 
rather  than  for  Smuggle-erie.  She  replied  to  his 
own  question. 

"  That  was  apparent,  surely." 
[152] 


A  Thorough  Understanding 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  dropping  the  paper  on  the 
floor.  "  That  will  do  now,  I  think."  His  eyes  met 
hers,  full  and  honest,  and  he  added :  "  We  better  un- 
derstand each  other  now !  " 

He  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  with  a  sigh  that 
was  almost  a  groan.  Grizel  walked  out  with  her 
hands  clasped  tightly  before  her,  followed  by  the 
coast-guard. 

Outside  she  met  the  dominie,  who  looked  at  her 
with  a  certain  wistfulness  in  his  kind  eyes.  Her 
Kps  quivered  before  his  gaze,  and  in  another  moment 
she  was  lying  in  his  arms,  sobbing  like  the  little 
girl  whom  the  old  dominie  had  so  often  dandled  on 
his  knees. 


[153] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

GROGBLOSSOM'S  DISCOVERY 

THE  Thistle  Down  hove  to  amid  a  creaking  of 
gear  and  washing  of  seas.  Morag  lay  six  miles 
astern  and  the  dim  dawn  was  casting  gray,  chilly 
shadows  upon  the  surface  of  the  Firth.  A  light 
haze  hung  upon  all,  and  before  it  lifted  there  was 
much  to  be  done.  In  the  shadow  of  the  schooner 
lay  a  squat,  slate-colored  boat,  piled  with  the  con- 
traband. Smuggle-erie  swung  himself  aboard  with 
a  nervous  laugh,  and  cried — in  a  tense  manner: 

"  Now,  lads,  buckle  to !  We've  had  our  work 
this  night  and  we're  not  yet  at  the  end  o'  the  wood. 
Bear  a  hand,  m'lads !  Slings  ready !  Heave-o  and 
quiet,  m'lads !  " 

The  men  worked  like  phantoms,  swiftly  and  silently. 
In  threes  the  kegs  came  aboard  and  were  stowed. 

Heather  Bloom  stood  looking  on  from  a  short 
distance.  It  was  not  the  sharp,  commanding,  quick- 
deciding  Heather  Bloom  of  other  days,  but  a  sullen 
gamester  who  had  cast  the  dice  and  knew  that  neither 
his  hopes  nor  fears  would  alter  the  result.  Only 
once  did  he  speak,  and  that  as  a  larger  keg — a  half- 
[154] 


Grogblossomfs  Discovery 

puncheon,  in  fact — came  lumbering  over  the  side 
and  fell  with  a  sullen  thud  upon  the  deck. 

"What's  that?"  he  asked  with  a  snarl.  "  Ye'd 
think  we  were  smuggling  elephants  to  look  at  it. 
Many  a  dog's  been  choked  by  that  kind  of  greed. 
To  one  side  with  it.  You  can't  stow  it  now.  Lively 
below,  there ! " 

In  fifteen  minutes  the  squat  craft  alongside  was 
empty  and  the  men  clambered  aboard,  all  except  the 
Red  Mole  and  his  surly  son,  Archibald.  These  two 
began  to  push  her  off,  but  Grant  stopped  them. 

"  Open  the  cock  of  that  boat ! "  he  commanded, 
"  and  come  aboard,  you  men." 

The  Red  Mole  and  his  son  looked  up  in  astonish- 
ment. Over  the  gunwale  they  saw  the  dour,  bearded 
face  of  the  sea-master. 

"  Open  the  cock  ?  "  echoed  the  Red  Mole,  while 
even  Archibald  gave  a  grunt  of  surprise. 

"  Open  the  cock,  I  say ! "  Heather  Bloom  growled. 
"  The  minute  this  haze  lifts  they'll  spy  her  from 
the  coast-guard.  Lively,  now !  " 

"  But  it's  my  boat  an'  worth  sax  pun',  if  it's  worth 
a  bawbee !  " 

Heather  Bloom's  answer  was  characteristic  of  his 
frame  of  mind.  He  suddenly  turned,  lifted  a  keg 
from  the  deck  behind  and  hurled  it  downward  into 
the  smuggler  boat.  The  iron-ringed  dead-weight 
missed  the  Red  Mole's  head  by  an  inch  or  two  and 
[155] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

crashed  into  the  bottom  of  the  craft  with  a  force 
that  sprung  her  timbers. 

"  Now  will  ye  obey  me ! "  Heather  Bloom  raved, 
as  the  water  began  to  bubble  around  the  Red  Mole's 
feet.  "  Come  aboard !  If  ye'd  done  it  at  first,"  he 
added,  as  the  two  men  climbed  over  the  side,  "  ye 
might  have  got  her  back,  water-logged."  He  whirled 
around  upon  the  man  at  the  wheel.  "  Up  wi'  your 
helm,  Sandy !  Stand  by,  m'lads !  " 

In  a  few  minutes  the  Thistle  Down  was  under  way. 
The  wind  was  out  of  west-northwest  and  freshening. 
Presently  the  haze  was  swept  away  and  all  at  once 
the  sun  rose  over  the  hills  at  the  headwaters  of  the 
Firth,  and  mountain  and  sea  were  bathed  in  a  cold, 
clear  light. 

Heather  Bloom  stepped  to  a  box  behind  the  wheel 
and  took  out  a  telescope,  which  he  leveled  first  upon 
Morag  and  then,  with  a  sweep,  upon  the  land  on 
either  side  of  the  Firth.  There  was  nothing  in  sight 
but  a  few  fishing  smacks  on  the  sea,  and  on  land 
the  world  was  just  awaking,  smoke  beginning  to  curl 
from  the  chimneys  of  the  villages  of  Inverkip,  Inellan, 
and  the  farther  town  of  Largs.  A  deep  sigh  burst 
from  Grant's  breast,  but  nevertheless  he  hailed  along 
the  deck : 

"  Crack  on  every  rag,  Smuggle-erie !  She'll  stand 
it  as  the  wind  holds !  Come  a  point,  Sandy — steady, 
lad!  Steady!" 

[156] 


Grogblossom's  Discovery 

The  schooner  dirled  away  through  the  merry  morn- 
ing waters  in  the  long  reach  for  the  Great  Cumbrae 
Island,  abeam  of  which  Heather  Bloom  brought  her 
before  the  wind  and  the  Thistle  Down  raced  like  a 
hound  for  the  open  channel.  There  was  now  little 
fear  of  pursuit,  or  of  danger  ahead. 

All  through  the  day  the  schooner  made  good  head- 
way. Heather  Bloom  never  left  the  deck  until  late 
in  the  evening,  when  the  breeze  dropped  rapidly. 
Presently  there  was  not  a  ripple  on  the  Firth  and 
one  could  hear  the  wailing  of  the  gulls  on  the  ghostly 
rock  of  Ailsa,  some  miles  ahead. 

Then  Heather  Bloom  descended  to  the  cuddy.  He 
sat  down  heavily  by  the  table  and  bowed  his 
face  over  his  clasped  hands.  Had  any  of  the 
crew  seen  him  at  that  moment,  they  would  have 
been  more  than  astonished.  Heather  Bloom  was 
praying ! 

During  the  last  twelve  hours  he  had  gone  through 
an  experience  which  his  worst  enemies  would  not  have 
wished  him  to  suffer.  The  conscience  which  makes 
a  coward  had  stung  him  sufficiently;  but  it  was  not 
that.  The  suspense  of  the  dash  from  Morag  had 
tried  him  to  the  utmost;  but  it  was  not  that  which 
bowed  him  in  misery  now.  Before  his  mind's  eye, 
there  was  the  picture  of  Grizel,  whom  he  had  thought 
asleep  in  the  cottage  with  the  flagstaff,  appearing 
in  the  ghostly  gloom  of  the  deck  at  the  moment  when 
[157] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

his  eyes  and  ears  were  straining  for  the  signal 
that  Smuggle-erie  and  his  men  were  safe  and 
away. 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  first  dawn,  her  appearance, 
just  as  he  turned  to  give  the  order  to  up  anchor  and 
away,  sent  a  shaft  of  supernatural  fear  through  his 
heart.  What  passed  between  them,  it  would  be  more 
harrowing  than  just  to  record;  but  when  the  Thistle 
Down  weighed  on  the  last  dishonest  voyage,  it  left 
behind  a  lass  whose  heart  was  lightened  by  at  least  a 
compromise,  and  the  schooner  carried  away  a  man 
who  had  suffered  the  deepest  degradation  of  a  father. 
There  was  nothing  now  that  she  did  not  know;  that 
was  the  one  consolation ;  but  what  filled  his  heart  with 
black  rage  was  all  that  he  had  not  known,  and  which 
she  had  told  him. 

The  door  of  the  cuddy  swung  open.  Smuggle-erie 
stepped  in  and  slammed  it  cheerfully  behind  him. 

"Pop  goes  the  weasel!"  he  cried,  and  burst  into 
song:  "With  a  hilly,  hilly,  holly " 

Heather  Bloom  sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  oath 
that  was  in  strange  contrast  to  his  previous  occupa- 
tion. 

"  Stop  that !  "  he  shouted. 

Smuggle-erie's  song  abruptly  ceased,  and  he  stared 
at  the  skipper  with  wide-open  eyes. 

"  You  call  yourself  a  man?  "  sneered  Grant. 

Smuggle-erie  turned  pale  with  shock  and  blazing 
[158] 


Grogblossom's  Discovery 

anger.  He  sprang  forward  and  brought  down  the 
flat  of  his  hand  on  the  table  with  a  decisive  smack. 

"  What  d'ye  mean  ?  Take  that  back — quick, 
or " 

The  two  men  faced  each  other — the  lion  and  the 
tiger.  Grant  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  You  would  trade  my  daughter  to  trap  a  man, 
would  you?  " 

His  words — the  tone  of  his  voice — would  admit 
of  but  one  charge  and  one  answer. 

Smuggle-erie   had  no   answer. 

He  knew  that  he  was  guilty.  The  whole  signif- 
icance of  his  conduct  flashed  through  his  mind.  The 
uneasiness  which  had  haunted  him  while  he  contem- 
plated the  act;  the  vague  fear  which  had  been  with 
him  ever  since  he  had  accomplished  it  and  had  heard 
Grizel's  cry  ring  out  by  the  castle  gate,  as  they 
hurried  away  with  the  inanimate  form  of  Ben  Larkin 
— all  revealed  its  full  meaning  to  him  now.  His 
tiger-like  glare  softened  to  shame,  and  quailed  before 
the  big  sea-master's  eyes.  He  drew  back  from  the 
table  and  with  his  eyes  on  the  floor,  his  hands  hanging 
limp  at  his  sides  and  his  body  drooping  on  one  foot, 
he  said  after  a  long  silence: 

"  I'm  sorry,  sir.  I  never  thought  of  it  that 
way." 

"  And  you  would  marry  my  lass,  and  be  a  husband 
to  her — after  that ! "  The  infinite  scorn  of  the 
[159] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

skipper's  tone  must  have  stung  the  other  like  a  lash. 
But  he  did  not  betray  it. 

"  No,"  said  Smuggle-erie,  looking  up  slowly,  "  I 
don't  think  so."  His  face  twitched  and  all  at  once 
a  strange  glistening,  like  that  which  heralds  a  tear, 
shone  in  his  eyes.  He  suddenly  burst  out  in  an 
anguish  of  passion  and  protest.  "  I  know  I'm  not  fit 
for  the  lass.  I  say  it  to  you  and,  by  God !  I'm  man 
enough  to  say  it  to  her.  But  what  d'ye  expect? 
I  Teen  nothing.  I  am  nothing.  A  charity  lad  that 
even  took  the  pity  of  a  miserable  old — Scrymegeour! 
Nobody  ever  taught  me  anything,  but  you,  and  I 
know  nothing  but  how  to  cheat  the  customs,  defy 
the  law,  and  fear  neither  God,  king,  man,  nor  devil. 
Is  it  my  fault?  I'm  not  a  man,  by  your  way  of 
thinking.  Tell  me,  Heather  Bloom,  as  a  man  to 
the  lad  you  saved  from  drowning  like  mongrel  spawn 
— is  it  my  fault  ? — is  it  my  fault  ?  " 

"  I  thought  better  of  you"  was  Grant's  reply, 
for  the  thrust  had  gone  straight  home  and  the  accuser 
had  weakened.  His  charge  had  rebounded  upon 
himself. 

Smuggle-erie  turned  away  and  looked  at  the  par- 
tition. He  waited  for  Grant  to  say  more,  but  that 
was  all  he  was  to  hear  in  that  strain.  Presently  the 
big  sea-master's  hand  fell  upon  the  younger  man's 
shoulder. 

"  I  forgive  you,  lad,  as  I  hope  to  be  forgiven 
[160] 


Grogblossom's  Discovery 

myself,"  said  Grant.  "  It  has  been  a  lesson  to  me, 
as  I  hope  it  may  be  an  example  to  you.  Pray  God 
that  both  of  us  win  through  this  time  and  see  an  end 
of  the  cursed  business.  Maybe  the  lass  might  forgive 
you,  too !  " 

"  Not  her !  "  cried  Smuggle-erie.  "  She's  head 
ower  heels  in  love  wi'  yon  admiral.  He's  the  better 
man  o'  the  two ! "  he  added  savagely. 

"  In  a  way,  maybe,"  Grant  qualified.  "  He's  in 
a  better  business,  but,"  with  a  bit  of  a  relieved  laugh, 
"  we'll  remedy  that,  lad.  Come !  "  And  he  rapped 
his  knuckles  on  the  table  in  cheery  fashion.  "  We'll 
remedy  everything,  Smuggle-erie.  We'll  begin  again. 
I've  promised  the  lass." 

"  Ye  —  what  ?  "  gasped  Smuggle-erie.  "  She 
kens?  " 

"  Aye,"  said  Grant,  averting  his  eyes.  "  She  kens. 
She  owerheard  us — Scrymegeour  and  me.  The 
lieutenant  kens,  too.  There's  the  whole  hang 
o't." 

"  Good  Heavens ! "  said  Smuggle-erie,  scarcely 
above  a  whisper.  He  hummed  a  few  bars  of  "  Pease 
Brose  Again,  Mither,"  then  broke  off  and  said :  "  I 
wish  I'd  known  that.  Now  we're  all  in  the  pickle. 
If  he  can  prove  you  Heather  Bloom,  he  can  prove 
everything  by  rule  o'  thumb,  almost." 

"  I  didn't  say  he  could  prove  it,"  said  Grant  des- 
perately. "  As  far  as  I  can  see,  Grizel's  his  one 
[161] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

witness  of  what  he  overheard.  He'll  make  nothing 
o'  her,  if  it  comes  to  that." 

Smuggle-erie  whistled  again,  sitting  on  the  table 
with  his  thumbs  stuck  in  his  belt  and  his  legs 
dangling. 

"  Is  that  all  he  knows  ?  "  he  interpolated. 

"  Yes,  but  it's  enough  when  you  consider  that 
he  was  seemingly  inveigled  to  a  certain  spot  by 
Heather  Bloom's  lass  and  there  knocked  over  the 
head.  And  when  he  came  to,  the  Thistle  Down  was 
gone.  Ye'll  admit  that  there's  smugglers  in  Morag." 

"  That's  just  the  point  in  our  favor,"  said 
Smuggle-erie  quickly.  "  We'll  admit  that  there's 
smugglers  in  Morag  and  that  the  man  they  would 
be  likely  to  get  rid  of  would  be  this  same  lieutenant, 
and  in  very  much  the  way  that  you're  describing. 
What's  that  got  to  do  with  the  Thistle  Down  and 
Captain  John  Grant,  bound  for  Bristol  with  an  honest 
cargo  of  general  merchandise  and  ballast?  See  what 
I  mean  ? "  concluded  Smuggle-erie,  raising  a  pair 
of  mischievous,  blue-gray  eyes  to  the  captain's  face. 

"  But  Grizel — Grizel  ?  "  said  Heather  Bloom  im- 
patiently. 

"  Safe  as  the  kirk,"  said  Smuggle-erie.  "  Aside 
from  the  fact  that  she'd  never  say  a  word  agin  her 
father,  even  if  the  court  asked  her  to,  yon  man,  Ben 
Larkin,  is  no  curmudgeon  like  Old  Scryme.  I'll 
wager  two  pounds  of  tobacco  to  a  half-mutchkin 
[162] 


Grogblossom's  Discovery 

of  whisky  that  he's  biting  his  nails  at  this  very 
minute,  and  wondering  what  to  do  with  the  girl  now 
that  he's  got  her." 

"  Got  her  ? "  echoed  Grant,  turning  pale  and 
agitated. 

"  Well,  ye  ken  what  I  would  mean,"  Smuggle-erie 
said  uneasily.  "  I  never  gave  it  a  thought,  but  I 
see  now.  He'd  send  for  her  and  ask  her,  and " 

There  was  a  silence.  Each  was  picturing  the 
scene  of  the  poor  girl  under  the  rack  of  inquisition, 
divided  between  her  loyalty,  her  love,  and  her  strict 
truthfulness. 

"  One  thing,"  said  Smuggle-erie  dubiously,  "  Lar- 
kin's  a  man.  If  it  had  been  Horneycraft,  now,  I'd 
ha'  been  for  putting  right  back  into  Morag." 

Again  there  was  thought-laden  silence.  Grant 
was  suffering  the  pangs  of  remorse  in  full  fury  once 
more.  To  his  first  agony  was  added  the  thought  that 
Grizel  was  bearing  the  brunt  of  everything  ashore. 

Smuggle-erie  was  having  his  share  of  wretchedness 
too,  although  his  more  self-interested  mind  concerned 
itself  a  little  with  wondering  why  Horneycraft  had 
sprung  no  surprise  throughout  the  whole  business. 
He  had  been  quite  sure  that  the  long-nosed  collector 
would  put  in  an  appearance  before  the  Thistle  Down 
sailed.  But,  no !  Not  a  sign  of  him.  The  schooner 
had  taken  aboard  her  honest  cargo  of  merchandise 
day  after  day,  without  a  single  visit  from  the  hawk- 
[163] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

like  Mr.  Horneycraft.  It  mattered  nothing  to 
Smuggle-erie  now,  but  he  could  not  help  wondering. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Horneycraft,  as  if  by 
an  instinct  that  outlived  the  man  himself,  was  at 
the  bottom  of  the  trap  which  presently  yawned  around 
the  smugglers.  That  night  the  schooner  made  slow 
but  steady  headway  down  the  channel  and  the  tension 
aboard  was  relieved.  Grant,  however,  fidgeted  about 
the  vessel  all  night,  his  heart  torn  between  eagerness 
to  get  forward,  and  done  with  it  all,  and  a  longing 
to  about  ship  and  sail  back  to  Grizel's  aid. 

When  morning  came  the  breeze  sharpened,  and  the 
bright  sunlight  raised  the  man's  spirits.  Together 
Smuggle-erie  and  Heather  Bloom  went  to  the  cuddy 
to  a  breakfast  of  porridge,  tea,  and  bacon.  Grog- 
blossom  was  cabin-boy,  as  well  as  cook,  and  kept 
traveling  from  the  galley  to  the  cuddy  and  back  as 
fast  as  he  could  waddle,  with  the  various  dishes. 

It  was  while  he  was  absent  from  the  cabin,  when 
breakfast  was  all  served,  that  Heather  Bloom  and 
Smuggle-erie  were  startled  by  a  sudden  horrible 
yell  which  echoed  through  the  ship.  The  yell  was 
followed  by  a  shuffling  of  heavy  feet,  and  presently 
Grogblossom  rushed,  or  rather  rolled,  down  the  com- 
panion. His  face  was  livid  with  horror,  and  he  was 
holding  his  hands  over  his  fat  paunch,  while  he 
groaned  and  cried: 

"  Oh !  O-o-o-h !  Oh !  Oh !  I'm  dead !  I'm 
[164] 


Grogblossom3  s  Discovery 

pizened!  And  I've  got  sich  a  horror  o'  the  deid! 
Guid  f  orgie  me !  I  seen  it !  I  seen  it !  " 

Heather  Bloom  jumped  to  his  feet,  grappled  with 
the  fat  cook,  and  threw  him  to  the  floor.  The  big 
sea-master  fully  believed  that  Grogblossom  had  de- 
veloped a  form  of  delirium  which  had  often  been 
prophesied  for  him.  Grogblossom,  for  all  his  solem- 
nity and  sanctity,  was  quite  a  tippler  in  his  quiet 
way.  He  never  drank  much,  but  he  was  forever 
taking  a  nip,  so  that  if  he  had  fallen  into  the  slough 
of  drunkenness  all  at  once  none  would  have  been  sur- 
prised. His  habit  of  tasting — a  common  trick  with 
cooks — had  often  led  him  into  curious  scrapes,  but 
none  excelled  his  present  experience,  not  even  that 
when  he  tasted  some  poison  for  rats  which  the  skipper 
had  brought  aboard. 

It  was  some  time  before  Heather  Bloom  and 
Smuggle-erie  realized  that  the  man  was  quite  sane, 
although  dreadfully  frightened.  Then  he  told  his 
story,  still  with  his  hands  upon  his  stomach,  and 
stopping  every  word  or  two  to  utter  a  groan. 

It  appeared  that,  feeling  tired  after  his  morning's 
work,  and  running  up  and  down  those  stairs — "  and 
he  had  a  weak  heart  " — he  thought  maybe  he  would 
feel  better  if  he  had  a  little  nip  of  spirits,  brandy 
or  something  of  that  kind.  He  had  none  himself, 
nor  had  any  of  the  crew.  He  would  have  waited  until 
after  the  breakfast  was  cleared  away,  to  ask  the 
[165] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

captain,  but,  as  he  explained  to  Heather  Bloom,  whose 
eyes  suddenly  began  to  twinkle,  he  was  feeling  so  ill 
that  he  doubted  if  he  would  have  the  strength  to  get 
as  far  as  the  cuddy.  His  heart,  etc. 

There  was  one  of  the  barrels  which  had  been  swung 
aboard  the  schooner  from  the  Red  Mole's  boat.  It 
was  bigger  than  the  others — a  half-puncheon,  in  fact 
— and  it  had  not  been  stowed.  Meaning  to  explain 
to  the  captain  later,  Grogblossom  said,  he  took  the 
liberty  of  broaching  the  barrel.  When  he  tried  to 
fill  a  can  with  what  he  supposed  was  whisky,  the 
barrel  yielded  only  about  half  a  pint,  then  the  flow 
stopped  short.  Grogblossom  was  puzzled,  but,  as 
he  explained  quaintly  to  Heather  Bloom,  the  quantity 
that  he  was  able  to  draw  from  the  barrel  was  enough 
for  all  immediate  intents  and  purposes. 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir ! "  he  groaned.  "  It  was  for  my 
heart.  Had  it  since  I  was  a  lad.  Done  everything 
for't.  And  so  I  tasted  the  stuff.  Losh,  man  !  Guess 
what  it  was.  It  was  brine — salt,  herrin'  brine.  An' 

it  had  a  taste  that Oh !  O-o-o-oh !  "  groaned 

Grogblossom,  rolling  over  on  his  side  and  writhing 
in  an  agony  of  horror.  "  I  canna  tell  ye.  I  canna 
put  a  name  to't.  I  pulled  out  the  spigot  and — oh, 
cap'n,  gang  an'  see  for  yersel'.  Gang  an'  see  for 
yersel' ! " 

Heather  Bloom  turned  and  found  Smuggle-erie's 
startled  eyes  full  upon  him.  Together  they  read  the 
[166] 


Grogblossom's  Discovery 

thought  in  each  other's  mind.  They  turned  and 
dashed  from  the  cuddy,  leaving  Grogblossom  alone 
with  his  misery. 

Along  the  deck  they  ran  to  the  spot  where  the 
half-puncheon  stood,  abaft  the  cook's  galley.  One 
glance  at  the  little  round  hole  where  Grogblossom 
had  been  operating  was  enough.  Through  it  pro- 
truded the  finger  of  a  man,  the  rest  of  whose  body 
was  inside  the  barrel. 


[167] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

STAND   BY  TO    GO   ABOUT 

HEATHER  BLOOM  and  Smuggle-erie  were  too  hor- 
ror-stricken to  do  anything  for  a  while  but  look  at 
the  finger,  which  protruded  from  the  barrel  with  a 
kind  of  devilish  accusation.  But  the  brains  of  both 
men  were  working  rapidly.  In  a  flash  of  intuition 
each  knew  the  name  of  the  murdered  man ;  made  a 
shrewd  guess  at  his  murderers ;  saw  the  trick  which 
had  been  played  upon  them,  and  realized  the  terrible 
consequences  that  were  likely  to  ensue. 

Yet  it  was  no  time  to  stand  there  and  glare.  The 
crew,  alarmed  by  Grogblossom's  behavior,  were  crowd- 
ing around  the  barrel.  Heather  Bloom's  eyes  sud- 
denly shot  into  their  midst  and,  in  a  terrible,  rasping 
voice,  he  said: 

"All  hands  on  deck!  Where's  the  Red  Mole? 
Tomlinson,  go  forrard  and  bring  aft  that  red-headed 
fiend.  Saunders,  you  go  bear  a  hand ;  and  you,  too, 
Black!  Bring  the  young  whelp,  too.  Never  mind. 
He's  here." 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  Heather  Bloom  had 
seen  the  surly  Archibald  leaning  against  the  main- 
[168] 


Stand  by  to  Go  About 

mast,  regarding  the  proceedings  with  a  cold,  unin- 
terested gaze. 

He  came  forward  at  the  captain's  command,  and 
stood  up  before  him,  with  his  long  arms  dangling 
listlessly  at  his  side.  Not  even  when  the  three  sailors 
came  back  with  the  Red  Mole,  whose  hair  was 
stiff  with  fury  and  fright,  did  the  son  move  an 
eyelash. 

Heather  Bloom  asked  no  questions,  but,  in  a  voice 
shaking  with  dark  emotions,  he  ordered  the  carpenter, 
Black,  to  bring  an  ax. 

"  Open  that  barrel !  "  he  commanded. 

The  schooner's  crew  stood  around  in  a  tense,  cran- 
ing circle,  as  the  ax  crashed  upon  the  barrel-head. 
Once !  twice !  thrice ! 

The  barrel-head  splintered  and  cracked.  The  sea- 
wind  hummed  in  the  rigging,  and  the  ocean  crowded 
and  danced  around,  as  if  eager  to  hear  this  new  tale 
of  the  sea  and  bury  it  in  its  bosom. 

A  fourth  time  the  ax  descended,  and  with  the 
handle  of  the  weapon  the  carpenter  levered  out  the 
broken  bits  of  the  head.  Silently  the  men  had  crept 
a  step  forward,  all  except  the  Red  Mole  and  his  son, 
and  every  eye,  fearing  to  look,  looked. 

At  first  sight  it  was  nothing  but  a  white  mass — 

coarse  salt;  but  as  they  stared  the  fog  cleared  from 

their  gaze,  and  the  thing  took  shape.     All  that  was 

to  be  seen  of  it  was  the  thin-haired  head,  wet  with 

[169] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

half-dissolved    salt,   but   the    face   was    the    face  of 
Horneycraf  t ! 

A  groan  burst  from  every  breast.  They  were 
engaged  in  a  nefarious  trade,  but,  as  such  things 
went,  the  smugglers  of  the  Thistle  Down  were  not 
bad  men.  And  this  thing  was  beyond  human  bear- 
ing. Heather  Bloom  was  the  first  to  recover.  He 
turned  a  pair  of  great,  blazing  orbs  upon  the  Red 
Mole,  who  suddenly  dropped  on  his  knees  and  wailed : 

"  I  never  did !  I  never  did !  It's  Scrymegeour's 
work,  I  tell  ye — Scrymegeour's  work !  " 

The  big  sea-master's  arm  flew  out,  and  the  Red 
Mole  dropped  to  the  deck,  felled  like  an  ox.  As  the 
man  lay  there,  bleeding  and  unconscious,  Heather 
Bloom  raised  his  hand  to  the  blue  heavens  and  stag- 
gered away,  crying  to  Heaven  for  mercy!  mercy! 
mercy ! 

As  his  back  was  turned,  the  stoic  Archibald  sud- 
denly awoke  with  a  scream  and  whipped  out  a  dirk. 
Out  went  one  of  Smuggle-erie's  legs,  and  the  Red 
Mole's  son  plunged  headlong  upon  his  face  on  the 
white  planks. 

In  another  moment  half  the  crew  was  on  top  of 
him,  beating  him  into  insensibility.  Smugqfle-erie 
drew  off  and  cast  a  glance  about  him.  The  schooner 
had  come  in  the  wind's  eye,  and  the  helmsman  had 
abandoned  the  wheel,  which  was  spinning  idly  in 
accord  with  the  flapping,  fluttering  sails. 
[170] 


Stand  by  to  Go  About 

The  schooner's  master  and  crew  were  demoralized. 
The  young  smuggler  saw  the  breach  into  which  he 
must  step.  He  flung  himself  upon  the  mass  which 
was  struggling  over  Archibald,  and  beat  the  men 
with  his  fists,  the  while  he  shouted  to  them  by  name, 
commanding  them  to  cease.  Presently  the  mass 
broke,  and  the  men  stood  up  before  Smuggle-erie. 
Archibald  remained  motionless  upon  the  deck. 

Smuggle-erie  glared  at  the  crew  for  a  moment; 
then,  rushing  upon  the  man,  Tomlinson,  he  drove 
him  back  to  the  wheel.  In  a  few  minutes  he  held 
the  deck  under  control,  and  the  men,  their  terrors 
renewed,  as  they  calmly  reviewed  what  had  happened, 
were  ready  to  obey  an  order  that  might  save 
them. 

"  I'm  going  below  for  a  minute,"  said  Smuggle- 
erie  sternly.  "  If  I  hear  a  pin  drop  while  I'm  there, 
I'll  come  up  and  stave  in  some  more  heads.  Here, 
you — Black.  As  you're  so  lively  wi'  the  ax,  cooper 
up  that  barrel  the  way  you  found  it.  Leave  these 
things,"  he  added,  indicating  the  Red  Mole  and  his 
son.  With  that  Smuggle-erie  marched  to  the  com- 
panion. 

The  minute  he  was  out  of  sight  of  the  crew  his 
nerve  deserted  him  completely,  and  he  dashed  into  the 
cuddy  with  a  face  the  color  of  dirty  snow. 

Heather  Bloom  was  sitting  on  the  settle,  leaning 
heavily  upon  one  arm.  The  other  was  flung  wide  and 
[171] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

aimlessly  across  the  table,  with  the  fist  shut  so  tight 
that  the  knuckles  gleamed  white  through  the  brown 
hair  of  it.  His  jaw  was  fallen,  and  he  was  for  all 
the  world  like  a  man  in  a  cataleptic  trance. 

Smuggle-erie  was  muttering  wildly  and  unintel- 
ligibly. The  big  sea-master  awoke  with  a  start,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  he  found  his  tongue  in  a  burst  of 
fury,  which  sounded  like  the  raving  of  a  wounded 
lion.  He  cursed  until  his  breath  gave  out  and  his 
face  turned  purple;  then  he  broke  out  in  a  hoarse 
peal  of  laughter,  which  ended  in  a  wailing  appeal  for 
mercy. 

Smuggle-erie  watched  him,  at  first  in  astonishment, 
then  in  fear  that  the  skipper's  mind  had  become 
overturned.  Finally  he  went  up  to  him,  struck  the 
giant  in  the  chest,  and  ripped  out: 

"  So  you  call  yourself  a  man ! " 

The  echo  of  another  scene,  it  struck  Grant  in  a 
peculiar  manner.  He  stopped  short,  stared  at 
Smuggle-erie,  then  sank  down  by  the  table  with  his 
head  in  his  hands.  To  Smuggle-erie's  ears  came  his 
voice,  muffled  and  hoarse: 

"  Murder !  Murder  on  my  ship !  She  told  me ! 
She  told  me  it  would  come  to  that !  Poor  little  lass ! 

If  it  wasna  for  Grizel "     He  suddenly  looked 

up,  dashed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  the  steel 
trap  shut  upon  his  face. 

"  What's  to  be  done?  "  he  snapped. 
[172] 


Stand  by  to  Go  About 

"  It's  mostly  done  already,"  said  Smuggle-erie 
coolly.  "  If  you  can  find  anything  else  to  do,  you've 
more  brains  than  me." 

"  Let's  take  this  from  the  beginning,"  said  Grant, 
becoming  strangely  calm.  "  Horneycraft  is  found 
daad  on  my  ship  in  a  barrel  of  coarse  salt.  That 
barrel  of  coarse  salt  came  from  Cothouse,  where 
Horneycraft  had  been  prowling  about  looking  for 
evidence.  The  Red  Mole  owns  that  place,  and  is 
responsible  for  every  barrel  of  contraband  aboard — 
he  and  Scrymegeour.  He — Smuggle-erie !  "  he  cried, 
breaking  off  short.  "  You  remember  in  the  cave, 
Saturday  night,  how  this  man  Red  Mole  blurted  out 
that  Horneycraft  was  '  dead,'  then  swore  he  had  never 
seen  him,  and  how  Scrymegeour  said  Archibald  would 
take  care  of  Horneycraft.  Oh,  why  talk!  They 
killed  him,  put  him  in  a  barrel,  and  shipped  it  along 
with  the  kegs.  In  fine,  they  knew  that  if  we  landed 
that  barrel  without  discovering  its  contents,  and 
somebody  else  found  the  body,  it  would  be  traced 
back  to  us,  and  it  would  go  hard  and  certain  with 
a  poor  devil  of  a  smuggler  because  it  happened  to 
be  a  revenue  officer  who  was  killed.  Oh,  the  arch- 
fiend!" 

Smuggle-erie  began  to  whistle. 

"  Why  land  the  barrel  at  all?  "  he  said  after  a  bit. 
"  It's  customary,  isn't  it,  to  give  a  man  decent  burial 
at  sea,  even  if  he  happens  to  be  a  revenue  officer?  " 
[173] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  That's  the  dirty  work  he'd  like  to  have  us  do ! " 
groaned  Heather  Bloom. 

"  It's  to  save  our  necks,"  was  the  very  practical 
retort.  "  We  might  'bout  ship  and  sail  into  Morag, 
but  who's  to  take  the  word  of  Heather  Bloom  against 
Old  Scryme's,  in  the  matter  of  a  revenue  collector 
murdered  and  found  dead  in  a  barrel  aboard  that 
same  Heather  Bloom's  ship? " 

"  Anything,  lad !  "  groaned  the  sea-master.  "  I 
can't  think — I  can't  think !  My  brain's  afire  and 
tumbling  like  the  sea.  You  do  it — do  the  best  for  me, 
lad ! "  And  the  big  skipper  flung  out  his  hands  in 
a  helpless  appeal  to  his  young  mate. 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir ! "  said  Smuggle-erie  respectfully. 
"  Then  bury  it  is.  I'll  make  the  arrangements  and 
call  you,  sir.  Ye  might  read  a  bit  prayer  afore 
we  tilt  the  thing  into  the  sea.  A  thing  like  that'll 
go  well  with  a  jury  of  land-lubbers.  For  the  rest, 
skipper,  don't  take  on  hard  about  it.  You'll  have 
the  whip  hand  of  Giles  Scryme  for  all  time,  even  if 
you  do  have  to  explain  in  the  end  why  you  kept  your 
mouth  shut  so  long." 

"  It's  not  that,  lad,"  said  Heather  Bloom ;  "  it's 
the  hard  luck  o'  it.  The  last  trip.  Think  o'  it! 
The  last  trip !  I  know  now  that  I  could  have  been 
happy  again;  but,  after  this — no! — never!  It'll 
haunt  me — haunt  me,  I  tell  you!  "  And  the  broken 
man's  voice  arose  in  an  agonized  crescendo. 
[174] 


Smuggle-erie  went  back  lo  the  deck.  The  carpen- 
ter, Black,  had  finished  coopering  up  the  barrel, 
and  stood  by  the  grewsome  thing,  ax  in  hand,  like  a 
headsman  by  the  block  upon  which  they  were  all 
to  be  executed.  Tomlinson,  with  blood  streaming 
from  a  cut  over  his  left  eye,  stood  sullenly  by  the 
wheel.  The  Red  Mole  still  lay  where  he  had  fallen, 
but  his  son  had  partly  recovered  consciousness  and 
had  crawled  into  the  scupper,  where  he  lay  muttering 
to  himself. 

Smuggle-erie  passed  Archibald  and  knelt  down  by 
the  Red  Mole's  side.  After  a  few  minutes'  examina- 
tion, he  rose  with  a  chuckle. 

"  Not  dead !  "  he  said  aloud.  "  Here,  Saunders 
and  Alec,  carry  him  below  and  tie  him  up.  You 
can  do  the  same  with  the  dummy  one,  there.  We 
may  need  them  before  we're  out  of  this  wood.  You, 
Black,  rig  up  some  sort  of  funeral.  We're  going 
to  roll  the  collector  overboard." 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir ! "  said  Black,  who  forthwith  set 
to  work. 

In  about  half  an  hour  all  was  ready,  and  the 
barrel-coffin  of  the  late  Mr.  Horn  eye  raft  stood  ready 
by  the  gangway.  Each  of  the  sailors  had  put  on 
his  shore-going  togs,  and  many  of  them  came  into 
the  solemn  ring  with  their  Bible  in  hand.  Heads 
bowed,  they  stood  in  a  semicircle  and  awaited  the 
Arrival  of  the  master.  The  carpenter  stationed 
[175] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

himself  by  the  barrel,  ready  to  knock  away  the 
wedges  and  to  let  the  queer  coffin  roll  into  the 
sea. 

When  all  was  ready,  Smuggle-erie  went  to  notify 
Heather  Bloom.  The  big  sea-master  was  sitting  just 
where  he  had  left  him,  but  at  Smuggle-erie's  word 
he  rose  and  took  a  Bible  from  a  locker  under  the 
settle.  Then  he  slowly  ascended  the  companion  and 
walked  toward  the  solemn  semicircle.  Several  of  the 
men  looked  up  and  nudged  one  another  as  he  ap- 
proached, for  the  captain  was  a  strangely  altered 
man.  He  seemed  to  have  aged  ten  years  in  as  many 
hours ;  but  the  events  of  the  last  hour  had  driven 
all  the  luster  from  his  skin,  and  the  gray  of  his  hair 
showed  almost  white  around  the  temples.  He  walked, 
too,  with  an  unsteady  gait,  and  his  eyes  gazed 
straight  and  stupidly  before  him.  In  silence  he 
took  his  place  beside  the  barrel.  He  began  to  rustle 
the  leaves  of  the  Bible  and  turn  them  idly.  Smuggle- 
erie  looked  over  his  shoulder,  with  the  intention  of 
offering  a  suggestion,  perhaps.  He  noticed  that  the 
captain's  Bible  was  upside  down.  He  was  about  to 
speak  when  Heather  Bloom's  voice — dull  and  distant 
— began  the  prayer: 

"  Our  Father  which  art  in  Heaven " 

He    stopped.     The   men    looked    up    at   him    and 
shuffled  uneasily.     Heather  Bloom's  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  far  seas,  and  he  was  swaying. 
[176] 


Stand  by  to  Go  About 

"  Our  Father "  He  stopped  again.  Smug- 

gle-erie  stepped  to  his  side.  The  captain  was 
swallowing  hard,  and  his  eyelids  were  flickering 
rapidly. 

"  Our  Father "  Then,  all  at  once,  the  big 

sea-master  tottered,  and  he  fell  back  into  the  arms 
of  his  men.  Smuggle-erie  gave  one  glance  at  his 
face.  It  was  dark  in  hue,  and  the  veins  were  stand- 
ing out  like  cords. 

"  Bear  a  hand,  lads ! "  he  cried.  "  The  devil's 
on  this  ship  !  " 

They  carried  the  skipper  below,  and  several  of 
the  sailors  set  to  work  to  loosen  his  clothes  and  get 
him  into  his  bunk.  Smuggle-erie  stood  by  and  help- 
lessly looked  on.  Presently,  as  the  captain's  writh- 
ings  awoke  a  similar  commotion  in  his  own  heart, 
he  rushed  to  the  deck  with  his  fists  clenched 
and  face  working  in  fury.  The  carpenter  was 
knocking  the  wedges  from  under  the  barrel,  after 
a  discussion  with  those  who  had  remained  on 
deck. 

"  Avast  there !  "  Smuggle-erie  roared.  "  Back 
with  that  barrel!  We'll  save  it  to  save  ourselves. 
Stand  by  to  go  about!  " 

He  leaped  to  the  wheel  and  jammed  it  down.  The 
men  sprang  to  their  posts,  too  dazed  to  notice  any- 
thing strange  about  the  command ;  and  as  the  Thistle 
Down  swung  around  and  filled  away  on  a  literal  home- 
[177] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

tack,  Smuggle-erie,  his  eyes  ablaze  with  the  joy  of 
battle,  shook  his  fist  at  the  north. 

"  You,  too,  old  shrimp !  "  he  cried.     "  Stand  by  to 
go  about ! " 


[178] 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  MADNESS  OF   BEN   LARKIN 

IT  was  twenty-four  hours  after  the  Thistle  Down 
sailed  before  Lieutenant  Ben  Larkin  was  able  to 
go  about  his  business.  Indeed,  if  the  dominie  had 
been  asked  about  the  matter,  he  would  have  said 
that  on  the  Tuesday  morning  when  Ben  left  the 
coast-guard  station,  the  man  was  not  fit  to  be  out 
of  bed.  But  Ben  did  not  ask  the  dominie's  opinion. 
"  He  took  French  leave,  by  thunder ! "  as  Cookson 
said. 

After  Grizel  left  on  Monday  afternoon,  and  all 
that  night,  Larkin  lay  writhing  under  the  sting  of 
defeat.  Defeat  it  was,  undoubtedly.  What  did  it 
matter  that  he  knew  who  Heather  Bloom  was,  and 
that  Giles  Scrymegeour  was  the  mainspring  of  the 
smugglers,  and  that  practically  the  entire  male  popu- 
lation of  Morag  was  privy  to  the  contraband  tribe? 
He  could  prove  none  of  it,  except  by  Grizel,  if  Grizel 
would  speak.  Something  in  him  revolted  against 
employing  her  against  anyone,  when  the  evidence 
which  she  could  give  had  been  got  while  she  lay  in 
[179] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

the  arms  of  the  man  who  was  swearing  by  all  the 
gods  to  love,  honor,  and  protect  her. 

There  was  only  one  thing  for  Ben  Larkin  to  do — 
get  out  and  snare  the  game  for  himself,  and  in  some 
other  way.  He  could  not  do  it  as  long  as  he  lay 
in  bed,  but  he  had  a  clew  which  was  legitimately  his, 
and  which  he  could  act  upon  without  a  clash  between 
love  and  duty. 

That  clew  was  throbbing  in  the  back  of  his  skull 
when  he  left  the  coast-guard  station  and  walked 
away  toward  the  castle  gate.  What  Grizel  had  to 
do  with  that  assault  he  did  not  know,  and  did  not 
care  to  think.  In  fact,  he  had  decided  not  to  think 
any  more  about  Grizel — any  more  than  he  could  help. 
He  would  forget  that  she  existed;  at  least,  he  would 
try  to  forget  that  she  had  anything  to  do  with  the 
smugglers,  and  even  that  she  was  Heather  Bloom's 
daughter. 

He  would  arrest  Heather  Bloom,  regardless 
of  his  daughter;  he  would  jail  Smuggle-erie,  in 
spite  of  the  ethics  of  rivalry;  he  would  turn  Mo- 
rag  inside  out  and  upside  down,  for  all  his  love 
mattered ! 

From  which  train  of  thinking  it  may  be  suspected 
that  Ben  Larkin's  brain  was  in  a  peculiarly  excited 
condition.  And  no  wonder.  He  was  the  hero  of 
this  business,  but,  unfortunately  for  him,  he  was  a 
hero  of  human  mold,  and  was  not  used  to  knocks  on 
[180] 


The  Madness  of  Ben  Larkin 

the  head  and  drowning,  as  a  regular  thing.  Between 
his  escape  from  the  sea  and  his  latest  adventure,  he 
was  in  an  ill  condition.  And  it  was  that  very  fever- 
ishness  of  intellect  which  sent  him,  like  a  drink-fired 
idiot,  upon  his  present  mission. 

He  first  went  to  the  castle  gate,  where  he  had  been 
knocked  on  the  head.  Here  he  had  once  been  mirac- 
ulously saved  by  Smuggle-erie.  Here,  also,  by  the 
Bull  Rock,  the  smuggler's  boat  had  vanished  a  little 
over  a  week  before;  and  here,  finally,  he  had  once 
heard  the  mystic  signal  of  "  Pease  Brose  Again, 
Mither ! "  Here  was  the  place  to  begin  his  inde- 
pendent investigation. 

He  went  straight  into  the  gardener's  lodge  and 
began  a  search.  His  fevered  brain  was  strangely 
acute  and  imaginative.  If  this  was  a  haunted  place, 
the  ghosts,  he  reflected,  wore  hob-nailed  boots,  the 
impressions  of  which  he  could  see  everywhere  on  the 
muddy,  rotten  floor.  In  a  few  minutes  he  found 
the  trap-door  and,  with  an  exulting  heart,  descended 
the  ladder.  A  cave!  Exactly!  And  the  low  tide 
revealed  a  bit  of  sunlight  at  the  other  end. 

So  this  was  how  he  had  been  saved?  He  looked 
around  the  cave.  There  was  not  a  scrap  of  anything 
to  signify  that  smugglers  had  ever  been  there;  but 
the  hob-nailed  imprints  upstairs,  the  ladder,  the 
outlet  into  the  Bull  Rock  passage,  all  combined  to 
satisfy  him.  He  returned  to  the  lodge  and  paused 
[181] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

by  the  door.  He  filled  his  pipe  and  lighted  it,  while 
he  carefully  eyed  the  ground  outside. 

"  They  took  no  pains  to  hide  anything,"  he  mused, 
gazing  interestedly  upon  deep  wheel-marks  and  hoof- 
prints,  which  told  how  the  vehicle  had  lingered  for 
some  time  at  this  door.  "  That's  the  trouble  about 
this  business,"  he  reflected ;  "  you  must  catch  them 
with  the  contraband  in  their  possession.  How- 
ever  " 

Puffing  his  pipe  amiably,  he  started  off  on  the 
trail  of  the  cart-tracks.  They  led,  not  into  the 
public  highway,  but  through  the  grounds  of  the 
castle.  Larkin  reflected  that  this  was  an  odd  cir- 
cumstance, but  it  became  more  interesting  than  odd 
when  the  tracks  skirted  the  old  castle  and  came  out 
on  the  mountain  highway  at  a  near  gate. 

"  A  short  cut,"  said  Larkin  to  himself.  "  Some- 
body in  the  castle  in  the  game,  too.  I  shouldn't  be 
at  all  surprised  if  the  laird  himself  is  in  it." 

Although  more  than  twenty-four  hours  had  passed 
since  that  cart  came  down  the  hill  road,  the  tracks 
were  almost  undisturbed,  so  rare  was  traffic ;  and 
there  had  been  no  rain.  Larkin  could  easily  trace 
them,  besides,  by  the  fact  that  one  of  the  wheels 
had  sunk  deeper  in  the  mud  than  the  other — showing 
that  the  cart  had  been  badly  trimmed.  The  second 
wheel  had  a  distinguishing  characteristic,  also.  It 
had  been  patched  on  the  iron  circumference,  and 
[182] 


The  Madness  of  Ben  Larkin 

had   left   its   stamp   on   the   road   every   five   or   six 
yards. 

Smiling  at  the  simplicity  of  it  all,  Larkin  walked 
on,  puffing  away  at  his  pipe,  until  he  came  to  Cot- 
house.  Mrs.  Currie  was  scrubbing  the  floor  of  the 
bar,  the  air  of  which  was  heavy  with  the  odor  of 
stale  tobacco,  bad  whisky,  and  vinegar. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Larkin  in  friendly  fashion,  "  how 
many  kegs  went  down  on  Sunday  night  in  the 
cart?" 

Mrs.  Currie  struggled  to  her  feet,  the  exertion 
causing  her  fat  face  to  turn  red  and  damp,  while 
her  breath  came  in  asthmatic,  vinegary  wheezes. 

"  Coward  !  "  she  gasped  indignantly.  "  To  come 
here  with  your  insultin'  questions  to  a  lone,  defense- 
less woman ! " 

"  Your  pardon,  madam,"  said  Larkin,  completely 
taken  aback,  but  highly  amused,  nevertheless.  "  I 
wouldn't  insult  you  for  the  world." 

"  Ye'd  better  not ! "  said  Mrs.  Baldy  Currie,  re- 
gaining her  breath  and  her  barmaid  manners.  "  I'd 
claw  every  hair  out  of  your  head ! " 

"  I  quite  believe  it,"  said  Larkin.  "  On  second 
thought,  I'll  be  more  discreet  than  valorous,  madam, 
and  retire." 

So  saying,  he  removed  his  hat  politely  and  de- 
parted, leaving  Mrs.  Baldy  Currie  completely 
stupefied. 

[183] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 


"  He's  daft !  "  was  her  final  and  complete  estimate 
of  Lieutenant  Ben  Larkin. 

Larkin  was  not  daft,  by  any  means,  but  his  head 
was  whirling  as  if  he  had  been  drinking.  The  fever 
of  his  wound  grew  worse  under  his  excitement,  and 
he  walked  back  to  Morag,  a  thousand  possibilities 
racing  through  his  brain.  As  he  was  passing  the 
rear  gate  of  the  castle  grounds,  it  occurred  to  him 
that  it  would  be  amusing  to  call  upon  the  laird  and 
ask  him  about  the  carts. 

The  laird  received  him  quite  graciously.  Richard 
Halliday  was  a  big,  stout  man,  with  the  approved 
bearing  of  a  country  squire.  He  could  rip  out  a 
"  By  George !  Egad,  sir  "  and  a  "  Country's  going 
to  the  devil,  sir ! "  like  one  to  the  manner  born, 
which,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  he  was.  He  also  had 
gout,  and  a  way  of  puffing  out  his  cheeks  when  he 
was  listening  to  anyone. 

"  I  merely  wished  to  ask  you  a  few  questions,"  said 
Larkin. 

"  Questions  ?  Questions  ?  "  sputtered  the  laird. 
"  Certainly,  sir !  With  the  greatest  of  pleasure,  sir ! 
An  honor,  I  assure  you  !  " 

"  You  are  aware,  I  presume,  that  the  amount  of 
smuggling  which  has  been  going  on  around  here  of 
late  has " 

"  Around  here?  Around  where?  Smuggling? 
Why,  yes,  of  course!  An  outrage,  sir — a  damned 
[184] 


The  Madness  of  Ben  Larkin 

outrage!  A  sign  of  the  times  we  live  in,  and  this 
confounded  Toryism!  Smugglers,  you  were  say- 
ing? " 

"  Smuggling — yes,"  said  Larkin  with  a  silly  laugh. 
"  I  said  smuggling.  The  smugglers,  you  know  "— 
and  the  laird  looked  astonished  as  Larkin  gave  him  a 
friendly  poke  in  the  ribs — "  the  smugglers,  I  was 
saying,  actually  drove  a  cart-load  of  contraband 
whisky  under  the  castle  windows  on  Sunday  night." 

The  laird  staggered  back  a  couple  of  paces.  Lar- 
kin could  not  help  noticing  the  blank  astonishment  on 
his  face. 

"  What  did  you  say?  "  he  stammered,  all  his  gruff 
heartiness  vanishing.  But  it  returned  in  a  sudden 
way  that  made  Ben  suspect  half  of  it  was  assumed. 
"  Passed  under  the  castle  windows — under  my  win- 
dows, sir?  An  outrage,  sir — a  cursed  outrage!  In- 
credible. I  cannot,  I  will  not,  believe  such  an  as- 
sertion, sir.  Under  my  windows?  Why,  good 
gracious,  man !  Have  a  glass  of  port  ?  No  ?  Oh, 
come,  come!  Oh,  very  well.  I  will  not  press  you. 
A  rule  of  mine.  You  were  saying " 

"  Saying?  "  echoed  Larkin  stupidly.  "  Oh,  yes. 
The  smugglers,  you  know." 

"  Hang  me,  sir !  "  cried  the  laird.  "  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  laugh  like  that." 

"  Does  my  laugh  annoy  you?  "  asked  Larkin  quiz- 
zically. 

[185] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Yes,  sir !  No,  sir !  What  the  devil  am  I  say- 
ing, anyway?  You  were  saying " 

"  I  was,"  said  Ben. 

At  this  peculiar  rejoinder  the  laird  collapsed  al- 
together, and  faced  Larkin.  The  lieutenant,  half- 
crazed  with  fever  as  he  was,  realized  that  it  was  time 
he  said  something  to  obviate  his  being  escorted  to  the 
door. 

"  I  was  speaking  of  the  cart-load  of  contraband 
from  Cothouse,"  said  Larkin. 

"  Eh ! "  cried  the  laird,  startled. 

"  And  which,"  continued  Larkin  steadily,  "  having 
passed  under  the  castle  windows,  one  might  say,  and 
having  been  smuggled  through  a  gardener's  lodge  on 
this  estate,  would  naturally  arouse  the  suspicion  that 
someone  in  this  castle  was  an  accomplice  of  the 
smugglers." 

"Eh?"  gasped  the  laird.  "Great  Heavens!" 
And  the  exclamation  was  no  squirely  bluster,  but  a 
genuine  explosion  of  fear,  or  astonishment.  By  a 
mighty  effort,  the  man  managed  to  regain  his  portly 
role,  and  blurted  out :  "  What  the  devil  d'ye  mean, 
sir?  How  dare  you,  sir,  poke  me  in  the  ribs !  What 
d'ye  take  me  for — a  fishmonger  ?  " 

"  You  misunderstand  me,  sir,"  said  Larkin  quietly. 
"  It  is  quite  possible  that  one  of  your  servants,  un- 
known to  you " 

"  Ah ! "  cried  the  laird,  his  face  clearing.  "  That's 
[186] 


The  Madness  of  Ben  Larkin 

more  like  it  That's  more  like  it.  Pardon  my 
temper.  As  a  child  I  was  hasty.  Positively  an 
affliction,  sir — an  affliction!  Have  a  glass  of 
port?" 

"  No,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Larkin.  "  I  must  be 
going.  But  keep  your  eyes  open,  laird.  Keep  your 
eyes  open." 

"  I  will,  sir — I  will,"  said  the  laird,  a  little  dubious 
of  Larkin's  meaning.  "  I  appreciate  your  kindness, 
sir.  Smugglery?  Huh!  Let  me  lay  hands  on  the 
rascals,  sir,  and  I'll  have  them  put  in  the  stocks,  sir — 
put  in  the  stocks,  as  they  used  to  do.  Old-fashioned 
ways  are  the  best,  sir — old-fashioned  ways,  I  tell  ye. 
But  there — it's  the  times  we  live  in !  " 

And  in  this  way  the  laird  conducted  Larkin  to  the 
front  door.  As  he  walked  off,  the  laird  saw  the 
lieutenant's  shoulders  quaking,  and  was  seized  with  a 
sudden  dread.  He  rushed  to  his  study,  rang  a  bell 
furiously,  and,  when  the  butler  appeared,  said: 

"  Dress  yourself,  James.  At  once !  You  must 
take  a  letter — at  once !  " 

Larkin,  in  the  meantime,  was  proceeding  on  his 
career  of  temporary  madness,  chuckling  to  himself. 

"  The  laird,  too !     Ha,  ha !     The  laird,  too !  " 

Passing  the  cottage  with  the  flagstaff,  he  nearly 
ran  into  Grizel. 

"  Aha !  "  he  cried  pleasantly.  "  Miss  Grizel.  The 
top  of  the  morning  to  you — afternoon — evening,  I 
[187] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

mean.  One  hardly  notices  the  flight  of  time,  as  I  was 
just  saying  to  the  laird." 

She  stopped,  looked  at  him,  and  gave  a  start. 
She  firmly  believed  for  a  moment  that  he  was  under 
the  influence  of  liquor.  Then  she  saw  that  he  was 
ill,  and  a  great  wave  of  maternal  pity  crossed  her 
face. 

"  Oh,  you  should  not  be  out ! "  she  said.  "  Go 
home,  will  you,  please?  Go  home,  and  I  will  get  the 
dominie  to  come  and  see  you." 

"  No,  madam,"  said  he,  with  exaggerated  polite- 
ness. "  Even  the  pleasure  of  your  loving  kindness  I 
must  forego.  You  cannot  tell  how  much  it  will 
grieve  me  to  arrest  your  father  and  the  young  man ; 
but  my  duty,  madam,  my  duty ! " 

And,  with  his  head  erect,  he  marched  away,  after 
a  dignified  salute,  leaving  the  girl  in  tears.  Passing 
Giles's  shop,  the  imp  of  mischief  again  seized  him, 
and  he  marched  inside. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Criminis ! "  cried  Larkin. 
"  I  mean  to  say — Mr.  Scrymegeour.  I  was  thinking 
of  particeps  criminis,  although,  after  all,  the  name 
might  apply — does  apply,  come  to  think  of  it. 
Good !  "  And  the  fever-crazed  man  laughed  lightly. 
"  Particeps  Criminis,  Esquire.  Not  bad !  Not 
bad!" 

And  he  walked  right  out,  leaving  Giles  staring 
blankly  after  him  and  muttering :  "  Particeps 
[188] 


The  Madness  of  Ben  Larkin 

criminis!  Particeps  criminis!  What  does  he  mean? 
What's  a  particeps  criminis — eh?  " 

When  Larkin  arrived  at  the  coast-guard  station, 
he  found  the  dominie  and  Jack  Cookson  awaiting  him, 
both  in  a  pretty  state  of  anxiety. 

Ben  promptly  poured  forth  his  tale.  It  was  a 
remarkably  accurate  estimate  of  the  whole  situation, 
considering  that  much  of  it  was  guesswork,  and  the 
whole  related  by  a  delirious  man.  Horneycraft,  he 
was  certain,  had  been  knocked  in  the  head.  So  had 
he  been,  for  that  matter.  That,  to  his  disordered 
brain,  was  quite  sufficient  proof. 

"  But  the  laird  a  smuggler !  "  cried  Larkin  boister- 
ously, as  Cookson  helped  him  off  with  his  boots,  while 
the  dominie  mixed  a  hot  potion.  "  The  laird  a  smug- 
gler !  That's  the  funniest  thing  of  all.  Well,  well, 
well!" 

They  got  him  to  bed,  finally,  and  induced  him  to 
sleep,  but  only  after  he  had  "  explained  "  everything 
in  detail,  and  assured  Cookson  that  all  that  was  neces- 
sary wits  to  arrest  Heather  Bloom,  Smuggle-erie,  and 
the  whole  crew  of  them  the  moment  the  Thistle  Down 
turned  up.  Then  somebody  would  undoubtedly  turn 
king's  evidence. 

The  Thistle  Down  had  just  left,  practically  speak- 
ing, and  was  not  expected  to  return  for  a  week. 
Therefore,  the  surprise  next  morning  was  superlative, 
when  Jack  Cookson,  who  had  been  standing  on  the 
[189] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

barren  rocks  reconnoitering  the  Firth  with  his  tele- 
scope, suddenly  burst  into  the  sick-room  and  re- 
ported : 

"  The  Thistle  Down,  sir !     Bearing  up  the  Firth 
under  every  stick  and  stitch,  by  thunder ! " 


[190] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

QUEER    DOINGS 

JACK  COOKSON  and  the  men  of  the  coast-guard 
were  not  the  only  persons  who  were  thunderstruck 
that  Wednesday  morning  by  the  sudden,  unlooked- 
for,  and  unaccountable  reappearance  of  the  Thistle 
Down. 

All  Morag  was  set  by  the  ears,  as  the  saying  is. 
All  Morag  knew  by  what  sort  of  trade  the  schooner 
profited,  and  this  daring  return  in  broad  daylight,  in 
the  face  of  the  coast-guard,  and,  as  was  to  be  pre- 
sumed, with  half  a  hundred  kegs  of  illicit  whisky  in 
her  hold,  was  beyond  comprehension.  In  fifteen  min- 
utes the  whisper  had  run  from  house  to  house  that 
something  had  gone  wrong,  and  in  twenty  minutes 
the  beach  was  crowded  with  the  anxious  and  the 
curious. 

But  there  were  three  persons,  besides  Cookson  and 
Larkin,  who  were  stunned  with  astonishment  and  fear. 
The  first  and  second  were  Giles  Scrymegeour  and  the 
laird.  The  letter  which  Richard  Halliday  had  dashed 
off,  after  Ben  Larkin's  visit,  was  to  the  miser,  warn- 
ing him  that  "  all  was  lost."  Giles,  full  of  dread, 

[191] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

had  taken  the  first  opportunity,  after  Morag  was 
asleep,  to  slip  up  to  the  castle. 

Nobody  ever  dreamed  that  Laird  Halliday  was 
aware  of  the  existence  of  Giles  Scrymegeour  even, 
but  such  is  the  way  of  the  world.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  laird's  honor,  like  that  of  many  a  better 
man,  was  on  paper,  and  reposed  with  other  similar 
documents  in  the  famous  iron  box.  Subsequent 
events,  which  have  little  to  do  with  this  story,  proved 
that  the  laird  and  his  estate  were  mortgaged  to  the 
throat,  and  in  the  clutches  of  Giles. 

"  I  tell  you  the  game's  up ! "  stormed  the  laird. 
"  I  was  a  fool  ever  to  go  into  it.  But,  thank  God, 
I've  had  little  hand  in  cooking  this  mess." 

"  Except  to  shut  your  eyes,"  sneered  Giles,  "  an' 
to  lend  us  the  cover  of  your  guid  name  and  an  estate 
road." 

"  Well,  that's  nothing.     What  if  I  denied  it?  " 

"  Ye  had  yer  share,  had  ye  no?  An'  there's  them 
as  kens  it.  But,  hoot  toot !  It's  no  as  bad's  that. 
We  could  prove  mair  agin  you  than  this  lufftenant 
could  prove  agin  us.  What  if  he  does  ken  the  stuff 
came  f  rae  Cothouse  ?  There's  nothing  there  to  prove 
it — not  even  a  still.  We  foresaw  that.  It's  juist  a 
clearin'-hoose  for  the  mountain  men.  And  what  if 
he  kens  o'  the  cave?  If  there's  anything  there — 
well,  Smuggle-erie's  a  bigger  fool  than  I  tak'  him  to 
be.  I  tell  ye,  a's  safe,  if  we  keep  cool  an'  no  meet 
[192] 


Queer  Doings 

trouble  half-way.  The  Thistle  Down's  gone.  Catch 
her  if  ye  can,  ses  I !  An'  she'll  no  come  back  wi'  any- 
thing contraband.  Uncle  Giles'll  see  to  that !  " 

"  I  hope  so !  I  hope  so !  "  quavered  the  laird. 
"  But  I  don't  like  it.  See  here !  As  you're  so  cock- 
sure, I'll  off  to  Edinburgh  for  a  month  an' " 

"Aye,  aye!"  said  Giles  coolly.  "You'll  off  to 
Edinburgh,"  an'  see  the  ladies,  an'  spen'  money  at  the 
clubs  an'  the  ilk,  while  old  Giles,  that  owns  the  clo'es 
on  yer  very  back,  's  to  stay  at  hame  an'  bear  a'  yer 
troubles.  Na,  na!  Share  an'  share  alike.  That's 
fair  do !  And  it  cuts  both  ways,  Mr.  Halliday.  But 
far  be  it  f rae  me  to  remind  you  o'  yer  debts.  It's  no 
generous.  We're  makin'  a  fash  aboot  nothing.  The 
man's  been  drunk  for  twa  days,  and  he's  just  blether- 
ing. Why,  man,  it  was  just  yesterday  he  cam'  into 
my  shop  an'  begins  some  haverin'  aboot  me  bein'  a — a 
— what  d'ye  call  it? — a  particeps  criminis!  The 
man's  dr 

"  A  what?  "  howled  the  laird.  "  He  called  you  a 
what?" 

And  when  Giles,  with  sudden  fear,  repeated  the 
words,  the  laird  turned  very  pale,  and  swore  by  the 
nine  gods  that  he  was  going  to  Edinburgh.  Then, 
when  Old  Scryme  had  the  bit  of  Latin  translated  for 
him,  he,  too,  flew  into  a  miserable  funk,  and  the  pair 
of  worthies  sat  down  and  considered  themselves  fit 
objects  for  the  world's  sympathy. 
[193] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

Giles  could  have  argued  around  any  definite  point 
in  the  business,  but  this  significant  phrase  completely 
bowled  him  over.  Latin  was  a  thing  for  which  Old 
Scryme  had  a  fearful  respect,  knowing  none  of  it 
himself.  It  was  the  kind  of  language  doctors  wrote 
when  they  didn't  want  patients  to  know  what  they 
were  giving  them,  and  it  was  the  kind  of  language 
Giles  had  seen  on  tombstones  and  heard  in  courts 
of  justice.  The  laird,  himself,  was  not  strong 
on  Latin,  and  his  offhand  interpretation  increased 
Giles's  fears.  This  was  like  stabbing  a  man  in  the 
dark. 

They  sat  there  by  the  big  fire  and  argued  over 
every  possibility  in  the  whole  business.  When  both 
of  them  had  talked  themselves  to  despair,  the  laird 
produced  a  bottle  of  old  port.  Forthwith  they  waxed 
cunning,  eloquent,  and  shrewdly  argumentative,  so 
that  by  the  time  the  cocks  began  to  crow  they  were 
agreed  that  all  was  not  lost  yet.  Maybe  that  was  all 
the  Latin  Larkin  knew.  Anyway,  the  best  policy 
was  to  stand  by  and  wait  developments. 

But  when  it  came  time  for  Giles  to  scurry  back 
to  his  hole  like  a  highly  respectable  rat,  and  the  laird 
lifted  the  blind  of  the  castle  window  to  see  that  the 
road  was  clear,  both  of  them  presented  gray  faces 
toward  each  other,  for  there  she  was — the  Thistle 
Down !  And  while  the  laird  crammed  his  clothes  into 
a  grip-sack,  Old  Scryme  scurried  back  to  his  shop, 
[194] 


Queer  Doings 

locked  the  door  on  the  inside,  and  sat  on  the  iron 
box,  all  a-shake  with  apprehension. 

Grizel  was  the  third  person  who  opened  her  eyes 
in  wonder  and  terror  when  the  schooner  reappeared. 
She  had  slept  little  during  the  two  nights  since  her 
father's  departure.  Her  heart  and  mind  were  in 
conflict  over  several  matters.  She  was  happy  in  the 
knowledge  that,  after  this  voyage,  Captain  John 
Grant  would  never  go  to  sea  again;  but,  in  gaining 
that  compromise,  she  had  grown  from  a  child  to  a 
woman.  Her  happiness  in  the  fact  that  she  had 
saved  her  father's  honor  was  mingled  with  the  pain  of 
her  other  love. 

She  could  not  hate  Smuggle-erie  for  what  he  had 
done,  for  she  believed  that  he  had  seized  Ben  Larkin 
in  order  that  this  last  trip  might  not  end  in  disaster. 
Yet  her  own  presence  and  involuntary  part  in  that 
business  had  widened  the  gulf  between  her  and  Ben 
Larkin.  She  made  no  secret  of  it  to  herself.  Her 
heart  was  his,  although  she  could  never  hope  that  his 
heart  would  be  hers. 

She  had  risen  early  from  a  sleepless  bed  that 
Wednesday  morning.  The  first  thing  that  her  eyes 
fell  upon  was  the  schooner,  with  its  curved,  billowing 
sails.  She  stood  stock-still  in  the  doorway  of  the 
cottage  and  stared. 

Then  her  heart  began  to  beat  like  a  hammer.  Why 
were  they  coming  back?  They  could  not  have  got 
[195] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

rid  of  that  compromising  cargo  so  soon.  Were  they 
mad?  They  surely  must  know  what  had  happened 
before  they  sailed.  Her  father  knew  of  Larkin's  dis- 
covery, and  for  her  sake,  at  least,  he  would  never  have 
come  back  into  the  lion's  jaws  like  this.  Then  a  fear- 
ful terror  assailed  her.  Perhaps  he  was  dead,  and 
the  others  did  not  know  all  that  she  had  told  him. 

Whatever  the  cause  of  the  return,  there  was  the 
Thistle  Down.  And  there  was  the  revenue  cutter 
racing  out  to  meet  her.  In  the  stern  sat  a  familiar 
figure,  Ben  Larkin.  Even  in  that  moment  of  anguish, 
her  maternal  solicitude  inwardly  chafed,  that  he 
should  be  endangering  his  life  again,  when  only  the 
night  before  the  dominie  had  told  her  that  he  was  a 
very  ill  man. 

But,  mystery  of  all  mysteries !  What  was  this  her 
eyes  beheld?  The  Thistle  Down  had  suddenly  hove 
to.  They  were  lowering  a  boat  and  into  it  a  barrel. 
She  could  not  see  her  father  anywhere,  but  could 
clearly  discern  Smuggle-erie  directing  movements. 
Now  she  could  see  him  lowering  himself  into  the  boat 
and  sitting  at  the  stern.  The  boat  pushed  off,  and 
they  were  rowing  toward  the  Bull  Rock,  under  the 
eyes  of  the  whole  coast-guard,  and  pursued  by  the 
revenue  cutter ! 

Grizel  stared  like  one  stricken  with  a  hallucination. 
But  it  was  true.  Then  they  could  not  know  that  the 
game  was  up ;  that,  whether  they  reached  the  cave  or 
[196] 


Queer  Doings 

not,  the  lieutenant  would  arrest  them  all.  Her 
father !  She  had  never  a  thought  for  Smuggle-erie ; 
but,  for  her  father's  sake,  she  must  save  them  all, 
warn  them  all! 

She  seized  her  bonnet,  but  paused  as  she  tied  it  on. 
If  she  warned  them,  whethe.r  she  succeeded  in  saving 
them  or  not,  again  would  she  stand  before  the  man 
she  loved,  afraid  to  explain,  unable  to  defend  herself. 
For  a  moment  her  mind  and  her  heart  battled.  No ! 
Her  father  was  her  father,  after  all.  She  had  always 
had  him,  and  might  always  have  him.  Larkin  was 

nothing  to  her — at  least She  tied  the  strings  of 

her  bonnet,  ran  out  of  the  house,  and  away  toward  the 
gardener's  lodge. 

After  all,  if  Ben  Larkin  had  his  duty  to  perform 
before  his  love,  so  had  she! 

In  the  meantime,  all  Morag  was  on  the  beach,  with 
the  exception,  perhaps,  of  Giles  Scrymegeour.  And 
all  Morag  was  staggered  at  what  was  going  on  before 
their  eyes.  They  saw  the  cutter  racing  to  meet  the 
schooner,  and  the  men  of  the  schooner  lowering  a  big 
half-puncheon.  Why  all  this  business  about  a  single 
barrel,  when  there  should  be  half  a  hundred  telltale 
kegs  still  aboard?  The  same  thought  occurred  to 
Ben  Larkin,  who  sat  at  the  tiller  of  the  cutter,  crying 
in  a  crazy  voice  to  his  men  to  make  greater  speed. 

But  when  the  boat  pushed  off  from  the  schooner's 
side  and  darted  away  toward  the  Bull  Rock,  he  cried 
[197] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

a  halt,  for  this  was  beyond  him.  Was  it  a  trick  to 
divert  attention  from  the  schooner?  Or  was  the 
whole  thing  a  delusion  of  his  delirious  brain?  Was 
it  possible  that  the  fools  were  going  to  run  the  Bull 
Rock  passage  in  broad  daylight,  with  the  tide 
low? 

"  Away ! "  he  yelled,  and  swung  the  tiller  to  port. 

The  Thistle  Down  was  too  big  a  business  to  escape 
detection,  should  smuggling  be  tried.  Besides,  the 
boat  could  be  captured  before  it  reached  the  rock  and 
towed  back  to  the  schooner.  The  men  bent  their 
backs  and  strained  their  muscles  over  the  oars.  It 
was  the  great  race  over  again;  but  this  time,  under 
what  altered  circumstances !  Larkin  knew  the  pas- 
sage nearly  as  well  as  they  did.  And  it  was  broad 
daylight.  The  whole  of  Morag  was  shouting  and 
cheering  on  the  shore. 

Bit  by  bit,  the  cutter  overhauled  the  smuggler. 
The  big  barrel  towered  above  the  heads  of  the  rowers, 
but  Larkin  could  see  Smuggle-erie  over  the  top  of  it, 
with  a  grin  on  his  face  as  marked  as  a  new  moon. 
What  was  he  grinning  about  ?  Larkin's  fevered  blood 
boiled.  He  felt  his  very  brain  take  fire. 

His  eyes  saw  red,  and  he  heard  himself  yelling  at 
his  crew,  while  to  his  ears  came  the  distant  roar  of  the 
onlookers,  who  waved  their  arms  and  yelled  from  the 
very  water's  edge.  The  remainder  of  the  Thistle 
Down's  crew  had  climbed  into  the  rigging,  and  they, 
[198] 


Queer  Doings 

too,  were   adding  their  lung  power  to   the  general 
pandemonium. 

"  This  is  madness — madness !  "  muttered  Larkin. 
Nevertheless,  he  urged  on  his  men. 

Foot  by  foot  they  overhauled  the  smuggler's  craft. 
The  turn  of  the  rock  came.  The  Thistle  Down's  boat 
shot  into  the  passage  and  was  lost  to  sight  for  a 
moment. 

"  Go  on !  Go  on !  "  yelled  Larkin.  "  If  he  can  do 
it,  I  can !  " 

The  cutter  raced  into  the  dangerous  passage,  Lar- 
kin steering  with  consummate  skill  amid  the  grazing 
fangs  of  rock.  The  ripples  of  the  smugglers*  track 
were  his  only  chart  and  compass,  but  on  the  cutter 
went,  unharmed.  Midway,  .the  lieutenant  raised  his 
eyes.  There  was  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  yawning 
wide  open  as  he  had  expected  to  find  it,  but 

The  smugglers'  track  did  not  go  near  it.  The  rip- 
ples continued  right  on  through  the  passage;  and 
when  Larkin  looked,  there  was  Smuggle-erie  standing 
up  in  the  stern  of  the  Thistle  Down's  boat  as  it  shot 
out  at  the  other  end  of  the  passage. 

Larkin  was  balked !  But  he  had  been  hard  to  beat. 
The  smugglers  knew  it.  They  had  seen  few  men, 
least  of  all  a  stranger,  dare  that  passage  of  the  Bull 
Rock.  Smuggle-erie,  filled  with  generous  admira- 
tion, took  off  his  hat  and  yelled : 

"  Three  cheers  for  the  revenue  chiel !  " 
[199] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

The  smugglers  took  it  up,  and  the  cheering  was 
echoed  ashore  and  from  the  rigging  of  the  schooner. 

Larkin  stood  up,  swaying  as  he  did  so,  and  ac- 
knowledged the  cheers  of  the  generous  victor  with  a 
salute.  But  in  that  instant  he  noticed  that  the  barrel 
was  no  longer  in  the  smugglers'  boat.  Where  was 
it?  He  sat  down  quickly  and  yelled  a  command  to 
his  men.  The  cutter  swung  to  the  left. 

"  Now,  m'lads  !  "  shouted  Larkin.  "  Two  good 
strokes  and  ship  oars !  " 

The  men  obeyed.  With  his  head  bent  forward  and 
his  hand  gripping  the  tiller,  Larkin  drove  the  boat 
right  into  the  gloom  of  the  sea  cave.  Here,  un- 
doubtedly, he  would  find  the  barrel  and  the  smugglers' 
accomplices.  They,  at  least,  would  be  trapped,  for 
the  gardener's  lodge  was  surrounded,  if  Jack  Cookson 
had  carried  out  his  orders. 

Ben  Larkin  was  first  to  scramble  up  on  the  rocks. 
A  dim  shadow  leaped  forward  to  meet  him.  A  light 
hand  fell  upon  his  arm,  and  a  voice  whispered : 

"  Smuggle-erie !  " 

It  was  Grizel.  There  was  not  another  living  thing 
in  the  cave,  nor  any  sign  of  a  barrel  or  smugglery. 
A  sudden  darkness  swept  over  Ben  Larkin's  heart, 
soul,  and  brain. 

He  turned  away  from  the  girl. 

"  No,  madam,"  said  he  brokenly.  "  Not  Smuggle- 
erie.  Only  Ben  Larkin !  " 

[200] 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"  BARREL BARREL WHO'S    GOT    THE    BARREL?  " 

A  SEARCH  of  the  Thistle  Down  followed.  Nothing 
came  to  light  but  the  sickness  of  Captain  Grant,  who 
was  presently  carried  ashore  on  a  stretcher.  Lieu- 
tenant Ben  Larkin,  also,  was  practically  carried  to 
the  coast-guard  station.  He  was  completely  used  up. 

Not  a  drop  of  illicit  whisky — not  a  bit  of  con- 
traband— had  been  found  on  the  schooner.  The  bar- 
rel— the  mysterious  barrel — had  vanished.  Smug- 
gle-erie's  wit  had  completely  tricked  the  revenue  of- 
ficers. 

It  was  then  that  Morag  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief, 
although  the  continuing  topic  of  the  day  was  the  bar- 
rel. What  was  in  this  barrel,  that  so  much  fuss  had 
been  made  about  it?  And  where  was  the  barrel? 
That  was  the  main  thing.  It  presently  became  al- 
most a  joke,  and  the  Morag  worthies  chuckled  on  the 
street  and  along  the  beach,  and  cried  jocularly  to  one 
another : 

"  Barrel — barrel — who's  got  the  barrel?  " 

None  but  Smuggle-erie  knew,  or  was  at  liberty  to 
say.  Grogblossom  and  the  rest  were  asked,  but  they 
[201] 


T,he  Vanishing  Smuggler 

only  shrugged  their  shoulders,  looked  preternaturally 
glum,  and  said :  "  Ask  Smuggle-erie."  That  young 
man  swaggered  down  the  one  and  only  street  of 
Morag  with  a  peculiar  grin  upon  his  face.  To  all 
questions  he  merely  answered: 

"Wait!" 

Jack  Cookson  held  a  stormy  interview  with  him, 
and  charged  him  outright  with  being  a  smuggler. 

"  Don't  answer !  "  he  cried.  "  Don't  you  dare  to 
answer!  I  don't  need  to  be  told.  I  know  it,  by 
thunder!  And  so  does  everybody." 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you  to  prove  it,"  retorted 
Smuggle-erie. 

"  Prove  it  ?  Prove  it  ?  Hang  proof !  "  Cookson 
bellowed.  "  What  did  you  do  with  that  barrel,  ye 
rapscallion  ?  " 

"  What  barrel?  "  Smuggle-erie  asked  in  mild  sur- 
prise. 

"  The  barrel  I  seen  you  put  in  the  boat  and  row 
around  the  Bull  Rock." 

"  Did  you  see  a  barrel?  "  Smuggle-erie  inquired 
earnestly. 

"  Yes,  sir — a  barrel — a  b-r-a-1 !  Ain't  that  plain 
enough?  " 

"  A  barrel ! "  said  Smuggle-erie,  pretending  ex- 
treme amazement.  "  Here !  "  he  added,  angrily  turn- 
ing upon  the  grinning  crowd.  "  Who's  got  that 
barrel?  " 

[202  ] 


" Barrel— Barrel— Who's  Got  the  Barrel?" 

Whereat  the  crowd  burst  out  in  a  roar  of  laughter. 
Joining  hands,  they  danced  in  a  circle  around  the 
coast  guard,  sing-songing  like  children: 

"  Barrel !     Barrel !     Who's  got  the  barrel  ?  " 

The  coast-guard,  fuming  with  rage,  stamped  away, 
after  cracking  several  over  the  head  with  his  ancient 
telescope.  Smuggle-erie,  himself,  made  straight  for 
"  Uncle  "  Giles's  shop.  He  found  the  miser  in  a  state 
of  clamminess. 

"  Come  in,  lad,"  he  whined.  "  Come  right  in ! 
Here,  hae  a  cigar.  Tak'  twa !  "  And  after  this  un- 
precedented fit  of  generosity,  Old  Scryme  started  to 
lock  up  the  shop. 

"  Stop  that,  you  old  shrimp !  "  cried  Smuggle-erie. 
"  If  you  can't  keep  your  head  straight,  lock  up  your 
conscience,  but  leave  that  door  alone.  Come  here! 
Sit  down !  Hand  me  an  apple !  Give  me  a  light ! 
Hold  it !  "  Puff— Puff— Puff.  "  There,  now !  Be 
a  good  little  nunky,  and  do  as  you're  told." 

"  Aye,  aye,  lad,"  the  miser  made  haste  to  answer. 
"  But  losh !  it's  the  sair  fright  I've  had  this  day. 
Guid  help  us!  What  does  it  a'  mean?  Here's  the 
Thistle  Down  come  back,  an'  a'  sorts  o'  didoes  kicking 
up,  an'  runnin'  the  gantlet  in  broad  day,  an'  the  cap'n 
carried  ashore  on  a  stretcher,  an'  a  revenue  off'cer 
spoutin'  Latin,  an'  the  laird  skedaddled  to  Edinbro'. 
What's  it  a'  aboot?  " 

"  And  so  the  laird's  skedaddled,  eh?  "  said  Smug- 
[203] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

gle-erie.  "  Well,  he's  a  good  riddance.  There  never 
was  a  bigger  coward,  unless  it's  yourself.  And  how's 
nunky  feeling,  hey?"  He  poked  Giles  in  the  ribs. 
Giles  gave  a  scream  of  hysterical  laughter,  and  then 
sat  down  in  a  quaking  heap. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  haud  off ! "  he  gurgled. 
"  Ye'll  be  the  death  o'  me." 

"  I  always  said  so — swore  so — and  meant  so !  "  was 
the  cool  assertion. 

"  Aye,  aye !  "  with  a  silly  giggle.  "  Ye  will  hae 
yer  joke.  But  tell  a  man,  Smuggle-erie.  Hae  an- 
other cigar?  Tak'  the  box.  Ye  ken  where  they 
come  frae — hey,  lad?  Noo,  tell's  aboot  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Smuggle-erie,  drawing  a  long, 
luxurious,  deliberate  whiff  from  his  cigar.  "  As  they 
say  in  the  kirk  when  somebody's  taken  bad,  owing  to 
a  sudden  indisposition  on  the  part  of  Captain  Grant, 
and  thinking  it  would  be  better  to  bring  him  home 
alive  than  in  a  barrel — I  mean,  a  coffin — I  put  back 
into  Morag." 

"  Aye,  lad,"  said  Giles,  overlooking  the  peculiar 
slip;  "  but— but  the— whusky,  lad?  " 

"  And  in  order  to  save  ourselves — that  is,  you  for 
instance,"  continued  Smuggle-erie  airily,  "  I  made  a 
virtue  of  a  necessity,  as  the  dominie  would  say 

"  Never  mind  the  dominie  !  "  Old  Scryme  protested. 

"  And  threw  every  keg  of  it  overboard !  " 

"  Eh?  "  gasped  Giles,  relief  dawning  upon  his  face. 
[204] 


" Barrel—Barrel— Who's  Got  the  Barrel?" 

"  Weel  done,  lad — weel  done !     But  what  a  waste— 
what  a  waste ! "  he  added  mournfully. 

Smuggle-erie  took  the  cigar  from  his  mouth,  stared 
at  nunky  with  big  solemn  eyes,  and  finally  blurted 
out: 

"  My,  but  you're  thrifty !  " 

"  Aye,  aye,  lad !  But  I  dare  say  it  was  a'  for  the 
best — a'  for  the  best." 

"  Imphm !  "  hummed  Smuggle-erie.  "  A'  for  the 
best — maybe." 

"  But  what  about  yon  barrel? "  whispered  Old 
Scryme.  "  What  devil's  prank  was  yon  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that !  "  said  Smuggle-erie  carelessly.  "  As 
you  say,  nunky,  I  will  hae  my  joke,  an-'  that  was  my 
bit  joke  on  the  luff  tenant,  just  to  show  the  coast- 
guard that  they  are  no  match  for  the  lads  o'  Morag, 
even  in  broad  daylight." 

"  Aye,  aye !  "  chuckled  Giles.  "  Ye  will  hae  yer 
joke.  But  ye're  awfu'  reckless — fearfu'  reckless. 
But  where's  the  barrel,  Smuggle-erie?  " 

"  Ah ! "  said  Smuggle-erie  knowingly,  and  wag- 
ging his  finger  in  nunky's  face.  "That's  just  it! 
Where's  the  barrel?  They  say  they  saw  a  barrel. 
Well,  where's  the  barrel?  Barrel,  barrel,  who's  got 
the  barrel  ?  I  can  see  the  lord  advocate  laughing." 

"  Wheesht,  man !  "  cried  Giles  in  agony.  "  Dinna 
talk  aboot  sic  a  person.  But  where's  the  barrel,  lad? 
Ye  can  surely  tell  nunky." 

[205] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Barrel ! "  roared  Smuggle-erie,  suddenly  losing 
his  temper.  "Is  everybody  daft?  What  barrel? 
I  never  saw  a  barrel !  It  wasna  a  barrel  ye  saw — it 
was  a  ghost!  Boo !  " 

Smuggle-erie  said  it  in  such  a  way  that  Giles's 
weak  heart  nearly  ceased  to  beat  for  all  time.  He 
leaned  heavily  against  the  counter  and  gasped  for 
breath : 

"  Losh,  Smuggle-erie,  ye're  a  clever  lad,  but  awfu' 
reckless — unco  reckless !  " 

"  Well,  don't  let  me  hear  any  more  about  that  bar- 
rel ! "  Smuggle-erie  shouted,  shaking  his  fist  in  Old 
Scryme's  face.  "  Where's  Horneycraft?  " 

"  I — I  dunno !  "  whined  Old  Scryme. 

"  Neither  do  I,"  chuckled  Smuggle-erie,  his  eyes 
twinkling. 

With  that  he  walked  out,  puffing  the  contraband 
cigar,  and  quite  regardless  of  the  fact  that  his  guard- 
ian was  lying  across  the  counter,  fighting  for  the 
breath  of  life,  and  blue  with  agony. 

Smuggle-erie  walked  to  the  coast-guard  station  on 
the  barren  rocks  at  the  north  end  of  the  village.  In 
the  parlor  he  was  received  by  the  dominie  and  Jack 
Cookson,  the  former  grave  and  disapproving,  the  lat- 
ter tempestuous  and  purple. 

"  Well,  sir !  "  thundered  Jack  Cookson.  "  I  sup- 
pose you've  come  to  turn  king's  evidence,  like  an 
honest  man." 

[206] 


"  Barrel— Barrel— Who's  Got  the  Barrel?  " 

"  Exactly  what  I've  come  for,"  said  Smuggle-erie 
coolly. 

"Then,  by  thunder!  it's  just  what  I'd  expect  of 
such  a  rapscallious  rogue." 

"  Is  the  lieutenant  well  enough  to  take  down 
what  I  have  to  say  ?  "  asked  Smuggle-erie  of  the 
dominie. 

"Tut,  tut!  What's  all  this  nonsense?"  the 
dominie  stammered,  completely  taken  aback.  "  King's 
evidence !  King's  evidence  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  said." 

"  Tut,  tut !  My  dear  young  man — I — I — the  fact 
is, — I  think — indeed,  I  may  say,  from  a  professional 
standpoint,  that  I  disapprove  of  the  entire  proceed- 
ings. Go  away — and — and  consider  that  what  you 
have  said  is  under  the  seal  of  professional  confidence. 
I — Bless  my  soul,  I  never  heard  the  like !  No,  young 
man.  The  lieutenant  is  too  ill  to  hear  you,  or  even  to 
understand  you  if  he  heard.  I  would  advise  you  to 
come  to-morrow  and — and  be  a  little  more  discreet  in 
speaking  in  the  presence  of  one  who  is  not  only  a 
medico,  but  a  bailie  in  the  land." 

With  that  he  turned  his  back  on  both  Smuggle-erie 
and  the  coast-guard  and  vanished  into  the  sick-room. 

"  What !  "  snorted  Cookson.  "  Is  it  possible  he's  a 
smuggler,  too?  Is  it  possible  I  have  nursed  a  wam- 
pire  at  my  heart  ?  By — thunder!  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  Smuggle-erie  with  a  laugh. 
[207] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  He's  no  smuggler — just  a  good  old  soul.  He's 
been  up  at  the  cottage,  hasn't  he  ?  " 

"  That  he  has." 

"  I  thought  so.     'Morning,  Coast-guard." 

And  Smuggle-erie  went  away,  looking  very  grave. 
He  understood  the  dominie's  reprimand;  but,  then, 
the  dominie,  he  reflected,  didn't  know  all  that  he 
knew. 

Smuggle-erie,  himself,  went  to  the  cottage  with  the 
flagstaff.  Mrs.  Martin  met  him  at  the  door  with  a 
face  that  would  have  shamed  saltpeter. 

"  How's  the  skipper?  "  he  asked  earnestly. 

"  None  of  your  business,  ye  heathen  malefactor !  " 
she  sniffed. 

"  I  want  to  see  him." 

"Ye  can't!" 

"  Well,  I  must  see  Grizel." 

"  Ye  sha'n't !  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Smuggle-erie  sadly.  Presently 
he  brightened  up.  "  Perhaps  it's  just  as  well.  But 
if  the  skipper  wakes  up  and  looks  to  be  uneasy  about 
anything,  tell  him  to  leave  it  all  to  Smuggle-erie !  " 

Later,  he  went  aboard  the  Thistle  Down.  Most  of 
the  crew  had  returned,  in  order  to  evade  questioning ; 
and  principally  because  they  were  afraid  to  remain 
ashore.  Smuggle-erie  avoided  the  score  of  question- 
ing eyes  that  sought  his.  He  went  straight  forward 
to  the  men's  quarters,  where  the  Red  Mole  and  his  son 
[208] 


(f  Barrel— Barrel— Who's  Got  the  Barrel?  " 

had  been  imprisoned  in  a  dark  cubby-hole.  He 
lighted  a  lantern  and  stepped  inside.  The  two  men 
were  sitting  on  the  floor,  with  their  hands  tied  behind 
them. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  Smuggle-erie.  "  We  are 
eager  to  save  our  necks.  The  game's  up  for  all  of  us. 
If  you  want  to  save  your  necks — and  you're  worse  off 
than  we  are,  by  a  long  sight — you'd  better  do  as  I  tell 
you.  The  barrel's  ashore.  Where  it  is,  nobody  kens 
but  them  that  ought  to  ken.  It's  going  to  be  pro- 
duced to-morrow.  And  you  two  are  going  to  be  there 
— if  you're  good.  What  are  you  going  to  do  when 
the  coast-guard  opens  that  barrel?  " 

Archibald  did  not  answer,  but  the  Red  Mole  looked 
up  and  said  with  a  pitiful  moan : 

"  Anything — anything  ye  say !  " 

"  Well,  you'll  tuni  king's  evidence,  and  repeat  just 
what  you  said  beyond  Ailsa  Craig.  Is  that  clear 
enough,  or  do  you  want  to  stay  in  there  till  the  rats 
nibble  ye?  " 

"Na,na!  I'll  tell!  I'll  tell!  I  canna  do  more ! " 
cried  the  Red  Mole. 

"  Or  less.  All  right."  And  Smuggle-erie  closed 
the  door,  locked  it,  blew  out  the  lamp,  and  went  aft 
to  the  cook's  galley. 

"  Pipe  up,  Grogblossom !  "  said  he. 

Grogblossom,  very  pale  and  very  sober,  produced 
his  tin  whistle  and  played  a  bar  or  two  of  "  Pease 
[209] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

Brose."  The  men  mustered  in  a  group  by  the  galley 
door.  Smuggle-erie  cleared  his  throat  and  spoke 
quietly  to  them. 

"  See  here,  m'lads,"  he  said.  "  We're  in  as  ugly  a 
hole  as  we  could  well  be  in.  You've  been  wondering 
why  1  put  back  into  Mo  rag,  especially  with  that  thing 
aboard.  Lads,  the  game  was  up.  The  revenue  was 
getting  too  much  for  us ;  and,  as  you  know,  this  was 
to  have  been  the  last  risk. 

"  We  would  ha'  won,  maybe,  and  that  would  ha' 
been  the  end  of  it ;  but  smuggling's  one  crime — if  it  is 
a  crime — and  murder's  another.  Even  if  we  had 
been  caught  smuggling,  it  wouldn't  have  meant  dan- 
gling by  the  neck  on  the  gallows ;  but  this  thing  does, 
if  we  don't  clear  ourselves. 

"  A  revenue  officer  was  killed  and  found  on  this 
ship,  whose  master  and  crew  were  wanted  for  smug- 
gling. Give  a  dog  a  bad  name,  and  you  might  as 
well  give  him  poison  at  once."  His  voice  suddenly 
dropped  to  a  whisper  almost,  and  his  words  came 
through  his  teeth.  "  You  know  who  killed  Horney- 
craft.  They — I  mean  he,  mainly — would  have 
shoveled  his  dirt  on  us,  and  if  he  doesn't  try  to  shovel 
his  crime  on  us,  it'll  be  because  Smuggle-erie  isn't 
smart  enough  to  beat  him.  To-morrow  this  murder 
is  going  to  come  out,  and  Smuggle-erie's  going  to  let 
it  out.  I'm  going  to  let  it  out,  lads,  in  such  a  way 
that  the  stink  of  it  will  make  our  little  failings  seem 
[210] 


ff Barrel— Barrel— Who's  Got  the  Barrel?" 

like  the  rustle  of  angels'  wings  in  comparison.  You 
understand  me  ?  " 

The  men  grunted  a  doubtful  kind  of  approval. 

"  You  don't !  "  said  Smuggle-erie  tersely.  "  Well, 
you  don't  need  to.  I'll  carry  it  through  myself.  But 
understand  this :  the  bigger  fuss  you  make,  the  harder 
you  drive  at  Giles  Scrymegeour  and  the  Red  Mole, 
the  thicker  you  lay  it  on  about  the  poor  old  skipper 
and  the  thing  in  the  barrel,  and  the  praying  and  so 
forth,  the  more  you'll  make  people  forget  that  the 
beginning  of  this  was  smugglery.  This  is  murder — 
murder — you  understand — the  rankest  kind  of  cold- 
blooded murder,  and  the  man  that  did  it  was  the  man 
who  was  capable  of  thumbscrewing  every  man  in  his 
employ.  If  there's  any  talk  of  smugglery,  ram  it 
home  with  the  murder,  and  see  if  you  don't  all  come 
out  with  angels'  wings  sprouting  out  of  your  shoul- 
der-blades. That's  all!" 

Every  man  remained  aboard  the  schooner  that 
night,  by  Smuggle-erie's  order.  But  shortly  after 
midnight,  when  Morag  was  as  quiet  as  a  churchyard, 
he  and  the  carpenter,  Black,  rowed  ashore  and  quietly 
beached  their  boat.  Then  they  went  to  the  lodge. 
They  entered  the  cave,  where  the  tide  was  low,  and  the 
starlight  shone  dimly  at  the  sea-end. 

Smuggle-erie  lit  a  lantern,  which  he  had  brought 
along,  and  gave  it  to  Black,  who  also  carried  a  coil 
[211] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

of  rope.  Presently  the  two  men  stripped  naked,  and 
Smuggle-erie  waded  out  into  the  low-tide  waters  at 
the  mouth  of  the  tunnel. 

At  the  very  outside  the  water  did  not  rise  above  his 
waist.  He  reached  his  hand  down  before  him,  and 
presently  he  called  back  in  a  whisper : 

"  All  right,  lad.  Leave  the  lamp  and  bring  the 
rope.  It's  here !  " 

Next  morning,  Giles  Scrymegeour,  on  opening  his 
shop  after  a  night  of  bad  dreams,  found  a  barrel  re- 
posing at  his  front  door. 


[212] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A   SENSATION    IN    MORAG 

GILES  SCRYMEGEOUR  looked  long  and  stupidly  at 
the  barrel.  What  kind  of  joke  was  this?  It  must 
be  said  that  at  the  precise  moment  Giles  was  quite  in- 
nocent of  the  contents  of  the  half -puncheon.  Indeed, 
it  was  some  minutes  before  it  even  occurred  to  his 
dazed  mind  that  this  might  be  the  barrel  that  every- 
body was  gossiping  about. 

Then,  slowly,  into  his  eyes  there  dawned  a  look  of 
horror  and  dread.  The  worm  had  turned!  That 
was  his  first  thought.  Heather  Bloom  had  caused 
this  compromising  thing  to  be  placed  at  his  door. 
The  fact  that  Heather  Bloom  would  not  have  dared, 
or  cared,  to  do  such  an  unprofitable  thing,  never  oc- 
curred to  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  miser  was 
striving  in  his  mind  to  explain  the  presence  of  the 
barrel  with  something  other  than  the  truth,  which 
was  knocking  and  whispering  at  the  door  of  his 
craven  heart. 

It  would  not  down.  His  conscience  would  not  al- 
low that  there  was  only  whisky  in  the  puncheon,  or 
that  if  there  was  whisky,  there  was  nothing  else.  The 
[213] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

barrel  was  familiar.  He  had  seen  it  at  Cothouse ;  but, 
then,  there  were  hundreds — thousands — millions  of 
barrels  in  the  world  like  it.  But  it  would  not  down. 

True,  Scrymegeour  had  not  known  just  how  the 
Red  Mole  would  get  rid  of  the — the  Thing.  He 
hated  to  give  it  a  name,  even  in  his  thought.  But 
he  suddenly  remembered  two  things  which  Smuggle- 
erie  had  said — that  about  bringing  home  Grant  in  "  a 
barrel — that  is,  a  coffin,"  and  also  that  queer  explo- 
sive question:  "Where's  Horney  craft?  " 

Yes !  This  was  Smuggle-erie's  work.  The  per- 
spiration stood  in  big  beads  on  Old  Scryme's  face, 
although  the  morning  was  quite  fresh.  But  he  ut- 
tered a  silly  laugh.  Of  course !  Why  had  he  not 
thought  of  it  before?  This  was  one  of  Smuggle- 
erie's  jokes?  Ha,  ha!  He  would  have  his  joke. 
A  clever  lad,  but  reckless — fearfu'  reckless !  But  it 
would  not  down. 

All  at  once  the  miser  was  seized  with  a  panic  of 
fear.  The  whispering  and  knocking  at  his  cowardly 
conscience  became  a  thundering  and  shrieking  of 
certainty.  He  must  get  this  barrel  out  of  the  way ! 
Morag  was  awaking.  There  was  the  dominie  coming 
from  the  sick-room  of  the  coast-guard  station.  He 
could  hear  voices  among  the  cottages,  and  smoke  was 
rising  from  the  chimneys.  He  must  get  this  barrel 
out  of  sight — quick! 

[214] 


A  Sensation  in  Morag 

He  laid  his  hot,  trembling  hands  upon  it.  The 
cold  iron  rings  stung  him  like  serpents.  He  drew 
away  his  hands,  and  a  pitiable  wail  of  abject  agony 
burst  from  his  throat.  Then  came  the  despair  of 
guilt.  He  flung  open  the  shop  door,  seized  the  barrel, 
and  began  hurdling  it  inside.  It  was  heavy.  And 
strangely  balanced !  He  could  not  feel  the  even 
weight  of  liquid,  but  his  frenzied  imagination  seemed 
to  hear  the  sullen  rolling  and  rumbling. 

Toiling  thus,  he  was  discovered  by  the  old  dominie, 
who  had  been  up  all  night  between  the  station  and 
the  cottage  with  the  flagstaff. 

"  Ah,  good-morning,  my  friend,"  said  the  venerable 
old  gentleman,  with  a  smile.  "  Strange,  is  it  not — 
and  yet  not  strange — that  the  night's  despair  van- 
ishes with  the  freshness  of  a  new  day.  Hope,  like 
life,  begins  another  era,  one  might  say,  and — 

The  dominie  stopped.  Giles  Scrymegeour  was 
leering  at  him,  with  the  eyes  of  a  rat  in  a 
cage. 

"  I  see  you  are  busy.  Is  this  the  famous  barrel 
that " 

"  It's  a  lie,"  Scrymegeour  snarled.  "  It's  my 
barrel.  Mine,  I  tell  ye !  " 

"  Bless  my  soul,  I  had  no  doubt  of  it — not  a  doubt 
of  it !  "  exclaimed  the  dominie  testily. 

He  would  have  passed  on  after  this  surly  reception, 
but  something  stern  and  comprehending  suddenly 
[215] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

leaped  into  his  eyes.  He  turned  upon  the  miser  with 
a  certain  bracing  of  his  old,  bent  shoulders. 

"Ha!"  he  ejaculated. 

The  dominie  had  been  learning  things  in  the  last 
twenty-four  hours — things  that  had  at  first  aston- 
ished him,  then  pained  him,  for  he  was  a  believer 
in  the  inherent  goodness  of  mankind,  and  which 
finally  puzzled  him.  There  was  something  back  of 
all  this  miserable  revelation  about  Captain  John 
Grant.  That  conviction  had  haunted  the  dominie. 
Now  he  thought  he  saw  it,  and  knowing  Giles  Scryme- 
geour's  record,  he  was  surprised  that  he  had  never 
thought  of  it  before.  Giles  Scrymegeour  was  the 
thing  behind  the  curtain,  as  one  might  say. 

"  It  suddenly  occurs  to  me,"  said  he  to  Giles,  with 
a  certain  stateliness  of  manner  and  tone,  "  that  I 
have  seen  this  barrel  before." 

"  And  what  if  ye  have,  ye  auld  busybody !  "  was 
the  retort.  "  Hae  ye  never  seen  a  barrel  afore?  " 

"  This  one — certainly !  It  is  the  barrel  which  dis- 
appeared. How  comes  it,  my  friend,  in  your  hands, 
when  so  much  may  hang  by  its  appearance  or  non- 
appearance  ?  " 

"  It's  none  o'  your  beez'ness !  "  snapped  Giles. 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  remember,  Giles  Scrymegeour, 
that  you  are  addressing  a  gentleman  and  a  king's 
magistrate.  Can  you  account  for  this  barrel?  " 

Old  Scryme's  nerve  quaked  before  the  grand  old 
[216] 


A  Sensation  in  Morag 

gentleman.     He  suddenly  burst  out  in  a  volley  of 
protest. 

"  It's  my  barrel !  "  he  whined.  "  I  forgot  to  talc' 
it  into  the  shop  last  night.  It  was  unusual  careless 
o'  me." 

That  convinced  the  dominie.  Giles  lied,  and  he 
knew  it.  He  had  passed  the  miser's  shop  several 
times  during  the  night  on  his  way  to  and  from  the 
coast-guard  station  and  the  cottage  with  the  flag- 
staff. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  equivocate,"  said  the  dominie. 
"  I  am  in  a  position  to  know  that  that  barrel  was 
not  obstructing  the  front  of  your  shop  before  three 
o'clock  this  morning.  I  think  that  article  should 
be  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  revenue  inspectors." 

Giles  was  in  a  bad  corner,  and  every  moment  the 
danger  was  increasing.  People  were  beginning  to 
stir  in  the  street,  and  several,  attracted  by  the  un- 
usual sight  of  the  dominie  and  Giles  Scrymegeour 
holding  talk  over  a  rum  puncheon  at  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  were  edging  up  to  gratify  their  curios- 
ity. Giles  saw  that  something  had  to  be  done,  es- 
pecially as  Smuggle-erie  and  the  bigger  half  of  the 
Thistle  Down  crew  suddenly  appeared,  as  if  by 
magic,  and  bore  down  upon  the  scene. 

"  Here,  Thompson ! "  cried  Giles  to  a  passer-by, 
and  with  an  assumption  of  diffidence.     "  Gie's  a  hand 
into  the  shop  wi'  this  barrel." 
[217] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Oh,  aye ! "  said  the  man,  Thompson,  coming  for- 
ward. Suddenly  he  cried  out :  "  Why,  certes !  it's 
the  barrel,  lads — Smuggle-erie's  barrel !  Hey !  Send 
for  the  coast-guard." 

"  He's  coming !  He's  coming ! "  was  the  cry. 
And,  sure  enough,  Jack  Cookson's  telescope  caught 
a  glint  of  the  sun,  as  the  old  coast-guard  came 
along  the  strip  of  beach  between  the  barren  rocks 
and  the  village. 

Giles  looked  around  in  a  hunted  way.  It  seemed 
as  if  there  was  a  general  conspiracy  against  him, 
which  there  might  have  been,  judging  by  the  grin 
on  Smuggle-erie's  face. 

"  It's  the  barrel !  It's  the  barrel !  "  cried  several, 
and  one  added :  "  Certes  it  is !  I'd  ken  it  in  a 
thoosan',  an'  forbye  I  had  a  guid  squint  at 
it." 

"I  tell  ye  it's  mine!"  shrieked  Giles.  "Hey, 
Smuggle-erie ! "  he  added,  turning  upon  his  grinning 
"  nephew,"  as  a  sort  of  desperate  resource.  "  Is 
this  your  barrel,  or  is  it  no  ?  " 

"  Far  be  it  from  me  to  be  a  judge  of  such  matters," 
replied  Smuggle-erie,  casting  his  eyes  upward  in  a 
kind  of  pious  horror.  "  Don't  drag  me  into  your 
troubles,  nunky." 

"  Oh,  why  don't  you  say  it  at  once?  It's  the 
barrel ! "  cried  the  carpenter,  Black,  with  a  broad 
wink. 

[218] 


A  Sensation  in  Morag 

"  It's  me  that  kens  it,"  Grogblossom  groaned  au- 
dibly. 

"  Then,  if  it's  yours,  it's  no  mine !  "  cried  the  miser. 
"  What  would  I  be  doin'  wi'  yer  barrel?  " 

"  That's  just  it,"  said  the  dominie.  "  What  are 
you  doing  with  it?  They  declare  it  is  theirs." 

"  Then,"  said  Old  Scryme  generously,  "  I  wash 
my  hands  o'  it ;  an',  seein'  it's  no  mine,  I'll  be  obliged 
if  ye'll  tak'  it  away  frae  my  shop  door." 

"  But  how  did  he  get  the  barrel?  "  cried  Smuggle- 
erie  suddenly. 

"  Where  did  you  lose  it  ?  "  the  dominie  inquired 
pertinently. 

"  I  thought  everybody  saw  for  themselves,"  said 
Smuggle-erie  glibly.  "  It  fell  overboard  as  we  were 
rowing  it  ashore." 

"  Well ! "  cried  the  miser  triumphantly ;  "  if  ye 
will  poke  yer  nose  into  my  affairs,  and  ye  will  ken — 
I  found  it  on  the  beach  this  mornin',  and  who  finds 
keeps — he,  he ! — who  finds  keeps  !  That's  the  law — 
eh,  dominie — you  that's  a  bailie  in  the  land  ?  " 

"  Not  so,"  the  dominie  dissented.  "  Who  finds 
does  not  keep  until  the  nature  of  the  wreck  which  has 
been  washed  ashore  has  been  examined  by  the  author- 
ity appointed  for  that  purpose,  and  all  efforts  to 
determine  the  owner  have  failed.  In  the  event  of  the 
owner  being  determined  the  said  owner  shall  pay 
salvage  to  the  finder  of  the  wreck." 
[219] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir — beggin'  your  pardon,  sir !  "  put 
in  Grogblossom.  "  We're  quite  willin'  that  Mr. 
Scrymegeour  should  have  the  salvage  on  the  con- 
tents." 

*'  Then,  gentlemen,"  concluded  the  dominie 
grandly,  "the  law,  as  applied  to  such  cases,  being 
stated  by  me,  as  a  bailie  in  the  land,  it  now  becomes 
my  duty  to  turn  over  this  article  of  wreck  to  the 
duly  appointed  receiver  of  wrecks." 

"  Do  what  ye  please  wi't ! "  cried  Giles,  turning 
in  the  doorway  of  his  shop.  "  It's  none  o'  my 
beez'ness." 

"  Tut,  tut ! "  said  the  dominie,  with  a  queer  flick- 
ering in  his  eyes.  "  It  behooves  you,  as  a  citizen 
and  a  subject  of  King  George  and  his  laws,  to  come 
with  me  before  the  receiver  of  wrecks  and  state  how, 
where,  and  when  you  came  into  possession  of  this 
article  of  wreck." 

"  And  who  may  this  precious  receiver  o'  wrecks 
be  ?  "  Giles  sneered,  attempting  to  hide  his  new  fear. 

"  Ha — hmm ! "  said  the  dominie,  a  little  floored  for 
a  moment. 

There  was  no  regular  receiver  of  wrecks  in  Morag, 
where  the  ocean's  bounty  had  hitherto  been  men's 
perquisite. 

But  the  dominie  was  not  to  be  floored  on  any  point 
of  law.  "  The  law,"  he  stated  finally,  "  provides 
that,  in  the  event  of  there  being  no  regular  receiver 
[220] 


A  Sensation  in  Morag 

of  wrecks,  the  coast-guard  shall  be  authorized  to  act, 
with  full  powers  appertaining." 

"  That's  so,  by  thunder ! "  cried  Jack  Cookson 
pompously,  as  he  stepped  into  the  circle.  "  I  ain't 
strong  on  book-larnin',  but  that's  as  the  law  pro- 
wides — with  full  powers  appertaining  likewise." 

"  Hear,  hear ! "  And  the  crowd  gladdened  the 
coast-guard's  heart  with  a  cheer,  which  he  acknowl- 
edged like  an  admiral. 

In  order  that  the  whole  proceedings  should  not  lack 
an  iota  of  dignity,  the  receiver  of  wrecks  loudly 
commanded  that  the  barrel  and  all  witnesses  be  taken 
to  the  burgh  hall,  the  institution  where  the  kirk 
elders  and  the  parochial  board  held  their  meetings. 
Here  Jack  Cookson,  in  all  the  glory  of  his  new  honor, 
rapped  order  on  the  moderator's  table  with  his  tele- 
scope and  opened  the  court  of  inquiry. 

The  whole  business  smacked  of  the  ludicrous,  which 
must  have  been  terribly  grim  to  Smuggle-erie  and 
those  who  knew  what  was  in  that  barrel.  Little 
did  the  coast-guard,  or  even  the  dominie,  dream  that 
the  lives  and  future  of  many  depended  on  what  was 
about  to  happen.  Smuggle-erie  and  his  men  kept  in 
the  background,  a  sign  which  Giles  Scrymegeour 
misinterpreted.  He  saw  fear  in  their  backwardness, 
and  took  hope  for  himself.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
had  he  taken  the  trouble  to  look  closer,  he  would 
have  seen  that  which  would  have  filled  his  heart  with 
[221] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

abject  terror — the  Red  Mole  and  his  son,  surrounded 
by  the  crew  of  the  Thistle  Down. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  coast-guard,  "  as  receiver 
of  wrecks  for  the  parish  and  town  of  Morag,  it  is 
my  solemn  dooty  to  open  an  inquiry  into  the  cir- 
cumstances surrounding  the  finding  of  a  barrel  on 
these  here  shores.  Ahem ! 

"  The  barrel,  as  I  understand  from  reli'ble  wit- 
nesses— mainly  my  own  eyes — was  fust  seen  in  the 
hands  of  persons  whom  I  have  every  reason  to 
suspect — to  believe — to  know,  by  thunder! — are 
smugglers ! " 

This  he  roared  out  with  a  glare  at  Smuggle-erie, 
who  returned  the  charge  with  an  amiable  grin. 

"  For  reasons  which  we  can  guess,  gentlemen  o' 
the  jury  (without  goin'  further  into  the  matter), 
them  smuggler  persons  did  attempt  and  try  to 
smuggle  the  said  barrel  to  the  said  shore  of  the  said 
parish  and  town  of  Morag."  And  the  coast-guard 
rapped  his  telescope  on  the  moderator's  table,  and 
glanced  at  the  dominie  as  one  who  would  say:  "  Can 
you  beat  that?  " 

"  The  barrel,  as  there  are  witnesses  to  prove,"  the 
receiver  of  wrecks  went  on,  "  disappeared  somewhere 
ahint  the  Bull  Rock.  Dick  Scrymegeour,  alias 
Smuggle-erie,  has  stated  that  the  blame  thing — that 
is  to  say,  the  barrel — fell  overboard.  Howsomede'er 
that  was,  or  is,  or  may  be,  the  said  barrel  is  next 
[222] 


A  Sensation  in  Morag 

discovered  by  a  larned  and  reli'ble  witness  in  the 
possession  of  one  Giles  Scrymegeour,  who  fust  says 
it's  his  barrel,  then  it  ain't  his  barrel.  The  p'int, 
gentlemen  o'  the  jury,  which  I  am  asked  to  detarmine 
is :  Whose  is  the  blame  barrel? 

"  But,  fust " — here  the  receiver  of  wrecks  looked 
like  a  judge  about  to  sentence  a  culprit — "  while  it 
ain't  in  my  c'mission  as  receiver  of  wrecks  to  inquire 
into  anything  beyond  the  ownership  o'  this  here 
barrel,  as  coast-guard  of  his  majesty  the  king — God 
bless  'im ! — there's  some  things  here  as  want  lookin' 
into,  an'  it's  my  dooty  to  do  it. 

"  Fust  and  foremost,  then,  the  court  orders  that 
that  there  barrel  be  opened,  forthwith  and  imme- 
diate ! " 

Then  the  barrel  was  opened. 

There  are  some  things  in  life  which  are  better  left 
undescribed.  The  scene  that  immediately  ensued  is 
one  of  them.  The  recorder  of  this  tale  has  a  con- 
fused memory  of  a  deathly  stillness,  followed  by  a 
sudden  buzzing  of  tongues,  swelling  into  a  roar  of 
horror,  which  as  quickly  died  again  into  sepulchral 
silence.  There  is  also  a  memory  of  a  white-haired 
coast-guard  leaning  across  the  moderator's  table,  all 
the  pride  of  race  and  calling  gone  from  his  face, 
and  of  a  crook-backed,  rat-like  man  chewing  his 
mouth  like  a  person  in  a  fit. 

Then  came  a  rush  of  feet.  The  crowd  parted  and, 
[223] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

through  the  lane  thus  formed,  Smuggle-erie  and  sev- 
eral of  his  men  rushed  the  Red  Mole  and  the  morose 
Archibald. 

"  Now ! "  cried  Smuggle-erie,  and  his  voice  rang 
out  clear  and  trumpet-like  in  the  breathless  air, 
"  say  what  you  said  beyond  Ailsa  Craig,  when  that 
barrel  was  first  opened." 

Then  the  Red  Mole  spoke: 

"  It's  a  lie,  sir — your  lordship ! "  he  wailed. 
"  They  want  to  put  it  on  me.  They  beat  me  till 
I  promised !  "  His  voice  suddenly  arose  in  a  defiant, 
desperate  yell.  "  They  done  it !  They  done  it,  I 
tell  ye !  I  saw  them  do  it — on  the  ship — on  the 
Thistle  Down !  It  was  him  that  done  it !  "  pointing 
to  the  checkmated  Smuggle-erie.  "  It  was  him  and 
Heather  Bloom  that  murdered  him  and  put  him  in 
the  barrel ! " 

Again  the  stillness,  broken  at  length  by  a  queer 
throaty  cry  from  Giles  Scrymegeour — the  cry  of  a 
hunted  animal  which,  in  the  moment  of  despair,  sees 
a  way  to  turn  the  tables. 

"  Ah !  "  he  gurgled. 

And  a  sudden  smile  lit  up  the  face  of  the  sphinx- 
like  Archibald. 


[224] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

GRIZEL    TO    THE    RESCUE 

THE  dominie  was  the  first  to  recover.  Rising  in 
his  seat,  he  overlooked  the  coast-guard's  right  of  pre- 
cedence, and  addressed  the  people: 

"  My  friends,"  he  said,  with  great  sorrow  in  his 
tones,  "  I  have  known  you  all  since  you  were  born. 
You  have  been  to  me  as  the  children  of  my  days, 
and  it  has  been  an  honor  to  be  your  father  in  many 
things. 

"  There  are  two  men  absent  from  this  room  whom 
I  would  wish  to  have  had  present.  One  has  fallen 
in  the  service  of  his  king  and  country,  and  little  he 
knows,  as  he  lies  in  the  coast-guard  house,  that  his 
labors  have  borne  a  fruit  which  is  bitter,  but  just  to 
all.  The  mills  of  God  have  completed  his  task. 

"  The  other  is  Captain  John  Grant,  master  of 
the  Thistle  Down.  He,  with  many  others  here,  has 
been  charged  with  a  terrible  crime.  The  fact  that 
he  may,  or  may  not,  be  the  smuggler  Heather  Bloom, 
concerns  us  little  in  the  face  of  the  tragedy  now 
before  our  eyes.  That  matter  I  leave  for  other 
judgment.  What  principally  concerns  me,  and  all 
[225] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

of  us,  is  that  murder  has  been  done,  and  it  becomes 
my  painful  duty  to  ascertain,  by  a  preliminary  in- 
vestigation, at  whose  door  this  murder  should  be 
laid.  I " 

"  It's  a  lie !  Somebody  put  it  there ! "  came  a 
startling  cry. 

"  Silence !  "  said  the  dominie  sternly.  "  Does  con- 
science, Mr.  Scrymegeour,  thus  make  a  coward  of 
you?  What  know  you  of  this  poor  man,  Horney- 
craft?" 

"  I  never  saw  the  man  before ! "  screamed  Giles 
Scrymegeour. 

"  Which  is  palpably  a  falsehood,"  said  the  dominie 
calmly.  "  I  take  note  of  these  remarks,  sir."  The 
dominie  then  looked  toward  the  receiver  of  wrecks, 
who  was  too  dumfounded  to  act.  "  The  duties  of  the 
receiver  of  wrecks  having  been  discharged,  I  shall 
now  take  my  seat,  with  the  receiver's  permission,  as 
a  king's  magistrate,  and  begin  hearing  in  the  name 
of  his  majesty." 

Old  Cookson  stepped  down  like  a  bewildered  man. 
The  dominie  went  to  the  moderator's  table,  and  took 
the  vacant  place. 

"  Is  the  young  man  known  as  Smuggle-erie  in 
court?  Stand  up  and,  in  the  name  of  God,  I  adjure 
you  to  speak  the  truth ! " 

"  Yes,  sir !  In  the  name  of  God  and  manhood, 
I'll  tell  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth !  " 
[226] 


Grizel  to  the  Rescue 

said   Smuggle-erie,   standing  up   by   the  table  and 
raising  his  hand. 

And  he  told  it,  beginning  at  the  beginning,  when 
Giles  Scrymegeour  fed  him  on  bread  and  water,  be- 
cause "  he  said  h$  took  me  out  of  the  workhouse." 
He  told  how  he  had  been  made  a  smuggler,  and 
how  he  had  been  saved  by  the  master  of  the  Thistle 
Down  from  being  "  drowned  off  the  Bull  Rock  like 
a  blind  kitten,"  at  the  instigation  of  Giles  Scryme- 
geour. He  admitted  that  Captain  Grant  and  the 
Thistle  Down  had  "  done  a  little  smuggling  now  and 
then  like  the  best  of  them,"  but  he  also  made  it  clear 
that  most  of  the  profits  had  gone  to  Giles  Scryme- 
geour. He  admitted  that  they  had  taken  the  barrel 
containing  Horneycraft's  body  aboard  the  schooner, 
but  denied  that  either  he  or  any  man  of  the  schooner 
(with  the  exception  of  the  Red  Mole  and  Archibald) 
had  known  that  it  contained  anything  but  whisky. 
"  Illicit,  your  honor.  I  swore  to  tell  the  truth !  " 
Least  of  all,  said  Smuggle-erie,  had  Captain  John 
Grant  been  privy  to  the  matter.  It  was  to  have 
been  the  last  trip,  for  Captain  Grant  had  sworn 
to  turn  over  a  page  and  stop  smuggling,  for  his 
daughter's  sake.  He  had  been  forced  into  this  last 
business  by  Giles  Scrymegeour,  who  had  threatened 
to  tell  Grizel  Grant  that  her  father  was  a  smuggler. 
Of  this,  Smuggle-erie  said,  he  could  not  speak  of  his 
own  knowledge,  but  only  by  what  the  girl's  father 
[227] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

had  told  him  in  the  presence  of  Giles  Scrymegeour 
and  several  of  the  Thistle  Down's  men. 

The  dominie,  at  this  point,  whispered  to  one  of 
the  villagers,  who  promptly  tiptoed  out  of  the 
room. 

Smuggle-erie  then  told  of  the  captain's  behavior 
aboard  the  Thistle  Down,  prior  to  the  finding  of  the 
body.  There  was  hardly  a  dry  eye  in  court  when 
Smuggle-erie,  in  a  voice  and  manner  which  betrayed 
either  great  emotion  or  great  histrionic  power,  de- 
scribed the  opening  of  the  barrel  and  the  proposed 
burial,  not  forgetting  the  men  with  their  Sunday 
clothes  and  Bibles,  and  the  captain  saying  "  a  bit 
prayer."  The  confession  of  the  Red  Mole,  which 
he  had  not  overlooked,  he  repeated  for  emphasis'  sake 
at  the  end  of  his  narrative. 

When  Smuggle-erie  had  answered  a  few  questions 
relative  to  the  bringing  of  the  barrel  aboard  the 
Thistle  Down,  he  was  allowed  to  sit  down.  He  was 
no  sooner  in  his  seat  than  old  Jack  Cookson  suddenly 
found  his  voice  and  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"  Your  honor,  sir ! "  he  cried  to  the  dominie,  the 
tears  hanging  on  his  cheeks,  "  it  don't  seem  quite 
right  for  the  coast-guard,  and  an  old  sailor  that 
has  served  the  king  and  Nelson  and  his  country — 
God  bless  'em  all ! — to  stand  up  and  defend  any  such 
rapscalliousness  as  smuggling " 

"  One  moment,  coast-guard,"  said  the  dominie. 
[228] 


Grizel  to  the  Rescue 

"  We  will  leave  smuggling  out  of  the  matter,  except 
so  far  as  it  touches  upon  the  first  question — murder !  " 
A  whisper  flew  among  the  crew  of  the  schooner, 
and  admiring  eyes  flashed  upon  Smuggle-erie. 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir !  You  know  the  law,  by  thunder, 
and  it  ain't  for  me  to  gainsay  you  on  any  p'int," 
said  Cookson,  apparently  quite  relieved.  "  That 
bein'  the  case,  I'm  freer  to  speak,  sir.  And  there's 
several  p'ints  that  I  can  clear  up,  in  the  absence  of 
my  adm'ral  (what's  sick  abed),  and  which  he  told 
to  me. 

"  In  the  fust  place ! "  he  cried,  gathering  breath 
like  a  rising  tempest,  "  if,  as  this  blame  red-headed 
man  swears,  Horneycraft  was  took  aboard  the 
schooner,  or  found  there  and  murdered  without 
quarter,  what  I  want  to  know  is — why  in  thunder 
did  they  bring  him  back,  when  they  could  ha'  buried 
him  at  sea?  Was  that  the  act  of  murderers?  " 

The  coast-guard  glared  around  to  see  what  effect 
that  had.  The  point  scored  heavily,  to  judge  by 
the  suppressed  murmur.  Encouraged,  Jack  Cookson 
continued : 

"  If,  as  this  red-headed  man  says,  they  murdered 
Mr.  Horneycraft  because  he  was  the  revenue  collector 
and  knew  too  much — 

"  One  moment,"  the  dominie  interrupted.  "  He 
did  not  say  so,  my  friend." 

"  Well,  he  meant  that,  anyway ! "  roared  Cookson. 

[229] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  I'm  not  strong  on  book-larnin',  but  I  know  what 
I'm  saying." 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  dominie,  smiling  his  apprecia- 
tion. 

"  If  they  murdered  him  on  the  night  the  Thistle 
Down  sailed — and  it  ain't  likely  it  was  before,  'cause 
this  here  man  says  they  done  it  on  the  ship — why 
didn't  they  put  Adm'ral  Ben  Larkin  in  a  barrel,  too  ? 
Hey?  They  knocked  him  over  the  head  that  night, 
and  tied  'im  up.  And,  by  thunder!  here's  a  witness 
can  prove  every  blame  word  of  that,  if  she'll  only 
talk!" 

There  had  been  a  little  rustle  of  excitement  while 
Cookson  was  speaking  and,  at  the  finish  of  his  second 
point,  Grizel  walked  into  the  important  council.  She 
was  pale,  but  calm,  and  walked  straight  to  the 
moderator's  table  with  her  eyes  lowered  and  her  hands 
clasped  before  her.  The  dominie  smiled  an  assuring 
welcome  and,  after  a  moment's  whispering,  seated 
her  in  a  chair  at  his  side.  After  the  little  excitement 
had  abated,  Jack  Cookson  resumed. 

"  Thirdly !  "  he  bellowed,  "  I  happen  to  know  by 
thunder,  that  Mr.  Horneycraft  had  been  missing 
four  days  before  the  schooner  sailed ! " 

This    point   also    scored   heavily    at   the   moment, 

although  those  who  remember  the  details  of  the  great 

Heather  Bloom  case,  in  Edinburgh,  will  recall  that 

it  was  thrown  out,  it  being  established  conclusively; 

[230] 


Grizel  to  the  Rescue 

that  the  murdered  Horneycraft  was  seen  thirty-six 
hours  before  the  Thistle  Down  sailed. 

"  And  fourthly,"  concluded  Cookson,  "  I  happen 
to  know,  and  the  adm'ral  will  bear  witness  to't, 
that  on  the  night  the  Thistle  Down  sailed  half  a 
hundred  barrels  came  from  Cothouse  Inn,  which,  as 
everybody  knows,  is  run  by  this  red-haired  man." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  dominie.  "  I  think  it 
should  be  easy  to  prove  where  the  barrel  came  from. 
The  evidence  of  the  lieutenant,  coupled  with  the  evi- 
dence of  the  crew  of  the  Thistle  Down " 

"  Why  should  it  ?  "  Giles  Scrymegeour  suddenly 
squeaked.  "  Why  should  it  prove  anything  ?  And 
what  have  I  got  to  do  with  that,  anyway?  The 
whole  bang-jing  o'  them  is  conspirin'  agin  Baldy 
Currie.  He  says  he  saw  them  do  it.  Is  that  not 
enough?  " 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  dominie  sweetly ;  "  I  had 
quite  forgotten  that  you  were  here,  Mr.  Scrymegeour. 
I  thank  you  for  the  reminder.  In  a  matter  of  this 
kind  we  accuse  none  until  all  is  heard.  I  do  not 
even  accuse  you  of  complicity  in  the  matter.  Is 
there  anything  you  wish  to  say?  " 

Giles  scrambled  to  his  feet,  and  his  little  rheumy 
eyes  peered  around  the  room  in  search  of  a  friendly 
face.  There  was  not  one,  but  there  was  also  none 
that  he  saw  any  logical  reason  to  fear  greatly. 

They  were  smugglers,  all  of  them,  and  he  had 
[231] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

taken  care  to  conduct  his  matters  with  a  view  to 
wriggling  out  in  such  an  emergency.  The  smuggling 
part  of  it  was  not  serious,  to  his  mind.  He  was  a 
merchant,  he  assured  himself,  and  surely  there  was 
nothing  wrong  in  taking  a  little  profit  when  it  came 
his  way.  What  had  he  to  do  with  the  Thistle  Down 
and  its  comings  and  goings,  save  to  buy  what  was 
offered  him  and  pay  the  price?  He  was  no  keeper 
of  other  folks'  consciences.  He  was  safe!  He  was 
safe,  so  long  as  the  Red  Mole  and  Archibald  stood 
by  him.  And  they  dared  not  speak,  or  their  own 
necks  would  stiffen  in  a  rope. 

Of  course,  it  was  a  great  pity  that  the  body  had 
not  been  landed  in  England,  for  then  it  might  never 
have  been  traced  back ;  and  if  it  had  been — why,  then, 
it  came  from  a  smuggler  ship  whose  captain  was  the 
notorious  Heather  Bloom.  Thus  Old  Scryme  could 
have  wriggled  out  quite  easily.  And,  of  course,  they 
had  been  great  fools  not  to  bury  the  body  at  sea. 
Who  would  have  believed  they  would  bring  the  body 
back?  Yet  they  had  brought  the  body  back.  Ah, 
there  it  was !  There  it  was ! 

Giles  Scrymegeour  suddenly  woke  up,  and  found 
Smuggle-erie's  eye  fixed  upon  him.  Ah!  There  it 
was !  The  miser  dashed  his  hand  across  his  face. 
It  was  wet.  It  surprised  him,  for  what  he  had  tried 
to  brush  away  was  the  memory  of  Smuggle-erie's 
father,  whom  he  had  ruined,  and  the  echo  of  Smuggle- 
[232] 


Grizel  to  the  Rescue 

erie's  promise  that  he  would  be  the  death  of  him 
some  day. 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say?  "  he  heard  the  dom- 
inie's voice  ask.  "  You  are  merely  delaying  the  pro- 
ceedings." 

Had  he  nothing  to  say?  Had  he  said  nothing? 
Had  he  been  standing  there  in  a  trance  all  this  time? 
Giles  Scrymegeour  tried  to  speak,  but  all  he  could 
stammer  was: 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say.  I  ken  nothing  at  all 
aboot  it.  It's  a  conspiracy,  I  tell  ye.  They  owed 
me  money.  Who  is  this  Heather  Bloom?  I  dinna 
ken  what — what " 

He  sat  down  stupidly,  and  began  to  moisten  his 
lips  with  his  tongue.  Then  he  heard  a  voice — far 
away  and  sweet.  He  presently  recovered,  and  found 
that  it  was  Grizel  Grant  who  was  speaking.  What 
was  she  doing  here?  What  did  she  know  about  the 
business?  What  could  she  say?  What  was  she 
saying?  Then  his  heart  gave  a  great  leap  and  he 
sat  staring  at  the  pale  girl,  standing  before  him 
like  an  avenging  angel. 

Gri/el  Grant  told  her  story  briefly  and  calmly. 
She  said  that  she  had  come  there  at  the  request  of 
the  dominie,  and  with  the  consent  of  her  father. 
Until  a  few  days  before  she  had  not  known  that  her 
father  was  a  smuggler.  She  was  sorry,  of  course, 
to  hear  it,  but  she  knew  that  her  father  was  a  good 
[233] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

man,  nevertheless,  because,  when  she  had  told  him 
that  she  knew,  he  had  promised  to  begin  life  over 
again,  for  her  sake.  That  was  on  the  night  the 
Thistle  Down  sailed. 

On  the  previous  night,  she  said,  she  had  been 
standing  with  Lieutenant  Ben  Larkin  at  the  gate  of 
her  father's  cottage.  It  was  very  late.  It  may  have 
been  morning.  They  had  just  come  from  the  har- 
vest-home, she  added  hurriedly.  Through  the  open 
parlor  window  she  had  overheard  her  father  and  Mr. 
Scrymegeour  in  conversation.  From  this  conversa- 
tion, which  Grizel  repeated,  it  was  made  clear  to 
the  dominie  that  the  miser  was  the  mainspring  of 
the  smugglers,  and  had  coerced  Heather  Bloom. 

"  You  are  positive  that  Lieutenant  Larkin  heard 
and  understood  the  significance  of  what  was  said  ?  " 
asked  the  dominie  gently,  while  Giles  Scrymegeour 
stared  blankly  at  the  girl. 

"  I — I  am  positive,"  Grizel  stammered,  a  wave  of 
red  crossing  her  cheeks.  "  I  know  he  understood. 

"  Next  evening  I  met  the  lieutenant  by  the  castle 
gate,"  Grizel  bravely  continued.  "  I  was  about  to 
speak  to  him,  when  he  was  attacked  by  a  number  of 
men." 

"  Who  were  they  ?  You  must  tell  me  that,"  said 
the  dominie. 

Grizel's  eyes  fell  to  the  ground.  It  was  the  last 
strand  between  her  and  Smuggle-erie,  and  the  heart 
[234] 


Grizel  to  the  Rescue 

of  the  woman  lingered  with  it.     But  Smuggle-erie 
himself  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  Here,  sir ! "  he  cried.  "  I  was  the  leader ! 
Talk  up,  lads!  Hands  up,  who  were  there?" 

"  Me  !  "  "  Me,  too !  "  «  And  me !  "  cried  a  dozen 
voices,  and  as  many  hands  went  aloft. 

"  Tut,  tut !  Bless  my  soul !  I  never  heard  the 
like !  "  cried  the  dominie,  forgetting  his  dignity  in 
his  admiration.  "  But,  tell  me,  child.  What  were 
you  doing  with  the  lieutenant  at  the  castle  gate? 
Had  he  asked  you  to  meet  him,  for  I  cannot  believe 
that — hmm — hmm " 

As  the  dominie  broke  off,  confused,  a  cunning 
smile  appeared  on  Giles  Scrymegeour's  face,  and  the 
smile  spread  into  an  evil  grin  when  Grizel  was  unable 
to  answer. 

"  There ! "  cried  the  miser  shrilly.  "  Heather 
Bloom's  lass.  A  conspiracy,  I  tell  ye !  " 

"  Don't  listen  to  that  shrimp !  "  cried  Smuggle- 
erie,  jumping  to  his  feet.  "  I'll  tell  ye  what  she  was 
doing  there." 

Grizel  cast  a  swift  glance  at  Smuggle-erie,  whether 
of  reproach  or  gratitude,  it  would  be  hard  to  say. 
Smuggle-erie  replied  with  a  flash  of  determination, 
and  spoke  up.  When  the  truth  was  out,  he  sat 
down,  very  red  in  the  face,  and  studied  the  toes 
of  his  sea-boots.  The  dominie  nodded  his  head  ap- 
provingly. 

[235] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  It  was  a  brave  man  who  spoke  that  confession," 
he  said.  "  I  believe  every  word  of  it." 

Grizel  resumed  her  narrative. 

"  Afterward  they  carried  the  lieutenant  to  the 
gardener's  lodge,"  she  said.  "  They  took  me  there, 
also.  No,  they  did  not  tie  me  up.  By  and  by — 
it  must  have  been  some  hours — a  cart  came  to  the 
door  and  the  men  I  have  named  began  to  bring  in 
a  lot  of  kegs,  which  they  lowered  through  a  hole  in 
the  floor.  The  Red  Mole,  and  that  other  man  with 
him,  were  there.  I  remember  that  distinctly,  because 
the  others  had  a  quarrel  with  them." 

"  What  was  the  quarrel  about,  Miss  Grant?  "  asked 
the  dominie. 

"  About  two  things.  First,  there  was  a  big  barrel, 
bigger  than  the  rest,  and  Smuggle-erie  asked  the 
Red  Mole  what  they  meant  by  sending  whisky  in 
a  barrel  the  size  of  a  ship.  That  was  the  way  he 
put  it." 

"  Stop  a  minute,  my  dear,"  said  the  dominie 
shrewdly.  "  It  pains  me  to  have  to  ask  you  to  look 
at  this  barrel.  Never  mind  what  is  in  it.  Just 
look  at  the  outside  of  the  barrel,  for  that  was  all 
you  could  have  seen.  Is  this  the  same  barrel?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Grizel,  bravely  facing  the  barrel. 

"  Thank  you,  my  child,"  said  the  dominie.     "  I 
think  that  will  do  now  and  you  may  go  home  to 
your  father.     I  hope  he  is  better." 
[236] 


Grizel  to  the  Rescue 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  Then  she  burst  out  sud- 
denly :  "  Oh,  no,  no !  There  is  something  else  I  must 
tell  you." 

"  Indeed? "  said  the  dominie,  surprised. 

"  Yes,  I  must  tell  you.  They  quarreled  about 
the  lieutenant.  When  all  was  ready  they  took  and 
carried  him  into  the  woods  and  left  him  there  with 
me.  But  before  that  this  man,"  and  she  pointed 
straight  at  the  Red  Mole,  who  cowered  before  the 
accusing  finger,  "  wanted  to  put  him  in  the  boat 
and  drown  him,  so  that  it  would  appear  that  he  had 
met  with  an  accident." 

"  It's  a  lie !     It's  a  lie !  "  yelled  the  Red  Mole. 

"  It's  true !  It's  true !  "  shouted  Smuggle-erie, 
and  a  score  of  smugglers  yelled  corroboration. 

"  Silence !  "  roared  Cookson. 

"  Yes,  it  is  true ! "  cried  Grizel.  "  I  would  not 
tell  a  lie  even  to  save  my  father.  But  that  man  said 
it  was  the  best  thing  to  do,  and  that  it  was  what  Old 
Scryme  would  have  wanted." 

The  uproar  that  followed  was  terrific.  The 
smugglers  yelled.  Cookson  roared.  The  dominie 
stood  up  with  his  long,  white  hand  raised  in  protest. 
Giles  Scrymegeour  was  writhing  on  the  floor,  his 
eyes  starting  and  his  mouth  chewing  and  chewing. 
Then,  out  of  all  the  hubbub  and  confusion  rushed  a 
man  with  fiery  red  hair,  who  flung  himself  on  his  knees 
before  the  moderator's  table  and  pleaded  for  mercy. 
[237] 


CHAPTER  XX 

EXODUS ! 

THE  news  that  was  broken  to  Larkin,  bit  by  bit, 
almost  made  him  believe  that  he  was  still  in  the  land 
of  delirium.  In  the  first  place,  Horneycraft  was 
dead,  and  it  had  been  his  body  in  the  barrel  which 
he  had  been  chasing. 

The  Red  Mole  had  confessed  to  the  murder.  He 
had  turned  evidence  against  himself,  his  son,  and 
Giles  Scrymegeour  on  the  schooner;  then  he  had 
pretended  that  he  had  done  so  only  to  save  himself 
from  the  smugglers ;  and,  finally,  a  chance  shot  from 
the  quiver  of  a  truthful  girl  had  left  him  with  the 
option  of  turning  king's  evidence  or  having  the 
whole  crime  upon  his  own  shoulders.  He  had  turned 
king's  evidence. 

Now  he  was  in  jail.  So  also  was  his  sulky  son, 
the  man  who  had  struck  the  blow.  So  also  was 
Giles  Scrymegeour,  the  man  who  had  formulated  the 
cunning  idea  of  shipping  the  body  on  the  Thistle 
Down.  So  also  was  Smuggle-erie,  Grogblossom,  and 
the  schooner's  crew.  Heather  Bloom,  a  lion  shorn 
of  his  strength,  lay  sick  unto  death  in  the  cottage 
[238] 


Exodus! 

with  the  flagstaff,  and  the  only  man  who  had  escaped 
the  reckoning  was  the  laird.  Well,  nobody  wanted 
him.  The  laird  had  been  only  a  tool. 

Smuggle-erie's  behavior  had  been  an  enigma  to 
Larkin  as  he  first  pondered  over  it.  Larkin  was  now 
master  of  the  situation  for  all  practical  purposes, 
but  in  his  own  heart  he  suffered  the  humiliation  of 
the  knowledge  that  it  was  Smuggle-erie  who  was 
the  victor.  With  his  shrewd  foresight,  the  young 
smuggler  had  seen  the  upshot  of  the  murder,  as 
it  affected  the  smugglers,  and  had  seized  the  bull 
by  the  horns  in  a  manner  that  took  the  lieutenant's 
breath  away. 

And  Grizel?  Larkin  sighed.  She  could  not  but 
compare  the  actions  of  either;  and  anyway,  he  re- 
flected, even  if  Smuggle-erie  had  not  shown  himself 
to  be  the  greater  man  of  the  two,  Larkin  had  wrought 
enough  damage  in  the  girl's  life  to  preclude  any  idea 
of  forgiveness  this  side  of  eternity. 

Aside  from  Larkin,  the  thing  was  a  nine-days' 
wonder  in  the  world,  but  before  one  of  the  nine  had 
expired  another  sensation  was  mixed  in  the  whirl  of 
events.  And  it  was  the  nature  of  that  sensation 
which  set  all  Scotland  by  the  ears  and  wafted  popular 
prejudice  to  the  side  of  the  smugglers  at  the  great 
Edinburgh  trial.  All  the  world  loves  a  daredevil, 
especially  when  his  recklessness  comes  strictly  within 
the  bounds  of  fair  fight. 

[239] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

When  the  dominie  ordered  that  Giles  Scrymegeour 
and  his  accomplices  be  locked  up  in  the  coast-guard 
station,  he  found  himself  confronted  by  a  delicate 
problem.  The  dominie  felt  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
place  Smuggle-erie  and  his  companions  under  tem- 
porary restraint.  Heather  Bloom,  of  course,  was 
incapable  of  attempting  to  escape  from  the  meshes 
of  the  law.  But,  unfortunately,  there  was  no  jail 
in  Morag  of  sufficient  dimensions  to  accommodate 
the  number  who  were  involved  in  the  affair.  And 
the  whole  crew  of  the  Thistle  Down  was  a  force  to 
be  reckoned  with. 

The  dominie  finally  offered  Smuggle-erie  and  his 
men  their  temporary  freedom  on  parole.  Smuggle- 
erie,  as  spokesman  for  the  crew,  declined  the  offer. 
Speaking  for  himself,  he  would  be  permanently  free 
at  any  cost  if  he  saw  a  chance  to  wriggle  out  of 
the  mess.  The  only  bond  that  he  would  recognize 
was  his  duty  to  Heather  Bloom. 

The  dominie,  in  despair,  was  compelled  to  borrow 
the  burgh  hall  from  the  kirk  elders,  and  here  the 
smugglers  spent  their  first  night  of  imprisonment 
with  song  and  story  and  dancing,  much  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  Morag  folk  and  the  horror  of  the  kirk 
elders.  The  latter  worthies,  in  fact,  threatened  to 
revoke  the  permission  and  would  have  let  the  jail 
loose  had  it  not  been  for  the  soothing  influence  of 
the  dominie,  who  promised  that  arrangements  would 
[240] 


Exodus! 

be  made  for  the  conveyance  of  the  smugglers  to 
Dunoon,  the  nearest  prison  town.  In  the  meantime 
Jack  Cookson,  with  six  armed  men,  was  placed  as 
guardian  of  the  jail. 

On  the  following  night,  shortly  before  midnight, 
the  door  of  the  cottage  with  the  flagstaff  softly 
opened  and  someone  stepped  into  the  parlor.  Grizel, 
who  had  been  sitting  up  with  her  father,  heard  the 
footsteps  and  timorously  went  to  investigate.  She 
found  someone  sitting  by  the  low  fire  in  the  open 
hearth. 

"  Smuggle-erie !  "  she  gasped. 

"  It's  me,  Grizel,"  said  he  simply. 

"  But  how  did  you  get  here?  How  did  you  get 
out  o'  the  jail?  " 

"The  jail?"  he  echoed  with  a  laugh.  "Lifted 
the  back  window  and  dropped  out.  Cookson  was 
telling  his  men  about  Trafalgar." 

"  But — but  the  others?  "  she  stammered.     "  Sure- 

ly-  -" 

"  All  aboard  the  Thistle  Down  by  this  time,"  he 
said.  "  I'll  join  them  after  I've  had  my  talk  with 
you." 

She  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  her  face  flushed 
with  admiration  and  her  bosom  heaving  with  the 
excitement  of  her  thoughts.  Then  the  quick  alarm 
sprang  into  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  lad,  lad!  What  have  ye  done?  "  she  cried. 
[241] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Stolen  the  ship,"  he  said  quietly.  "  We'll  put 
to  sea  before  dawn.  Then  good-by,  Smuggle-erie. 
Lass,  have  I  done  my  duty?  Am  I  as  bad  as  ye 
thought?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  sitting  down  on  the  rug  and 
gazing  thoughtfully  into  the  fire.  "  Ye've  done 
wonders,  lad.  But — my  poor  father!  It's  like  ye 
were  leaving  him  alone." 

"How  is  he?" 

"  He's  awake  and  knowing  me,"  she  said.  "  The 
dominie  says  he'll  get  well  again."  She  suddenly 
burst  into  tears.  *'  Oh,  Smuggle-erie,  I  almost  wish 
he'd  died." 

"  Come,  lass.  Cheer  up !  "  whispered  Smuggle-erie, 
bending  over  the  crumpled  little  figure  on  the  rug. 
"  We've  made  it  as  safe  for  him  as  mortal  men  could. 
For  myself  I'd  stay — ye  ken  I'd  stay,  but  there's 
others  to  think  o',  and  forbye  that,  lass,  although 
we're  goin'  to  disappear  like  magic,  never  fear  but 
Smuggle-erie'll  be  nigh  Edinburgh  when  the  time 
comes,  and  ye'll  find  me  at  your  shoulder  if  I'm 
needed  to  say  a  word  more  than  I've  done." 

"  Aye,  aye,"  she  said.  There  was  silence  for  a 
minute.  Then  she  said  softly :  "  Smuggle-erie,  ye 
forgive  me?  " 

"  Forgive  ye  for  what  ?  "  he  laughed,  but  with  a 
little  catch  in  his  throat.  "  Forgive  ye  for  not 
wantin'  to  marry  a  hereawa',  thereawa',  wanderin' 
[242  ] 


Exodus! 

Willie  like  me?  No,  lass,  I  wouldn't  marry  ye  if 
ye  asked  me  on  your  bended  knees.  I  love  ye  too 
much." 

Her  only  answer  was  a  sob. 

"  I  have  a  notion,  lass,  that  maybe  you  think  you 
love  me  a  wee  bit,  after  a',"  he  went  on  earnestly. 
"But  ye'll  forget  that,  Grizel.  As  for  me,  I  ken 
myself  better  than  anybody.  I'd  make  ye  happy  for 
a  month  or  two,  maybe,  and  then  I'd  be  off  again. 
There's  only  one  bride  for  Smuggle-erie,  lass.  It's 
the  sea,  because  she's  as  changefu'  and  fickle  as 
himsel'." 

"No,  I  don't  believe  it!"  she  gulped  out.  "I 
will  never  believe  it !  " 

"  Come,  lass,"  he  said  huskily.  "  Ye'll  surely  no 
come  courtin'  me  like  that.  Are  ye  as  fickle  as  me, 
to  be  f orgettin'  your  love  so  soon  ? "  It  was  a 
moment  of  peril  for  them  both,  but  he  conquered. 
"  Come,  lass !  "  he  said  sharply.  "  Time's  short  and 
there's  danger.  Show  me  to  your  father." 

She  led  the  way  in  silence.  She  would  have  en- 
tered the  sick-room,  but  he  waved  her  back  and  the 
door  close^  upon  the  two  men.  What  passed  between 
them  none  but  God  and  themselves  know. 

Grizel  returned  to  the  hearth.     She  knelt  down 

and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.     What  she  felt 

and  thought  it  would  be  indiscreet  to  ask.     All  the 

mysteries  of  a  woman's  heart  were  moving  in  the 

[243] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

deep  waters.  In  that  moment  Larkin's  happiness 
was  perilously  near  the  vortex.  The  old  sense  of 
hero-worship  which  she  felt  in  Smuggle-erie's  pres- 
ence lay  upon  her  now  like  a  twilight  glamour.  If 
he  had  spoken  the  word — who  knows? 

In  a  little  while  the  door  of  the  sick-room  opened. 
She  heard  a  voice — her  father's : 

"  Good-by,  and  God  be  with  you  on  the  wide  seas, 
lad.  Ye've  been  a  good  friend." 

Then  the  door  closed,  and  he  stood  once  more 
beside  her. 

"  Good-by,  lass." 

"  Good-by — Smuggle-erie." 

He  placed  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  looked 
down  into  her  face.  She  met  his  eyes,  but  hers  were 
clouded  with  brimming  tears  and  her  lips  quivered. 
From  somewhere  outside,  faint  and  subtle,  came  a 
few  bars  of  an  old  tune. 

"  That's  Grogblossom,"  he  whispered.  "  Some- 
thing wrong."  His  brows  knitted.  "  Kiss  me,  lass 
— just  once  for  old  sake's  sake." 

She  kissed  him.  It  was  no  mere  propitiatory 
salute.  It  was  a  kiss — the  one  secret  she  ever  kept 
from  her  husband. 

Again  the  whistle  sounded.     Smuggle-erie  opened 
the  front  door  and  stepped  out.     Grizel  stood  behind 
him,  silhouetted  against  the  light  within.     A  gruff 
voice  hailed  through  the  darkness : 
[244] 


Exodus! 

"  Halt,  in  the  king's  name !  " 

"  Go  to  the  devil !  "  retorted  Smuggle-erie. 

Next  minute  he  was  running  toward  the  beach, 
with  the  coast-guard  panting  at  his  heels.  And  as 
he  ran  he  chuckled  mightily  to  himself,  for  a  thunder- 
ous voice  was  bellowing  through  the  night: 

46  The  jail's  out,  by  thunder!  " 

Smuggle-erie  cut  away  to  the  right  and  doubled 
back  to  his  tracks.  Then  he  paused  for  a  moment 
and  looked  around  him.  The  Thistle  Down  swung 
at  her  moorings.  To  his  straining  ears  came  the 
creaking  of  blocks  and  tackle.  They  were  making 
sail.  If  only  they  would  weigh  anchor.  How  was 
he  to  warn  them  ?  Would  they  hear  the  coast-guard's 
voice  ? 

Again  a  voice  challenged  him  to  stop  in  the  name 
of  King  George.  Smuggle-erie  laughingly  retorted 
and  shot  away  to  the  left.  The  scene  somehow  stirred 
memories  that  were  distant,  yet  close  to  his  heart. 
There  was  a  bit  of  a  haze  on  the  sea,  and  it  threatened 
to  deepen  into  a  first  wintry  fog.  The  Gantock 
bell  had  just  clanged  for  the  first  time  in  months. 
Presently  the  fog-horn  would  raise  its  voice  in  the 

matter  and The  spirit  of  the  thing  suddenly 

swept  over  his  soul,  just  as  it  had  done  years  before, 
when  he  ran  through  the  night,  in  his  bare  feet,  with 
his  shoes  in  his  half-frozen  hand. 

"  Halt,  in  the  name  of  the  king ! "  cried  a  voice. 
[245  ] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  Smuggle-erie!  "  he  yelled,  almost  in  response  to 
an  instinct. 

There  came  a  sudden  report  of  a  horse-pistol. 
Smuggle-erie  darted  on  unscathed. 

"  Good !  "  he  muttered.     "  That'll  warn  them." 

Then  the  idea  possessed  him  that  he  could  divert 
attention  until  the  schooner  could  up  anchor  and 
away.  For  himself  he  had  ceased  to  think.  Grizel 
was  in  his  heart,  and  youth  was  in  his  memory.  He 
had  no  desire  to  leave  Morag.  There  was  only  one 
place  in  the  world — Morag;  only  one  girl — Grizel; 
only  one  game — "  smuggle-erie."  The  mist  deep- 
ened. The  houses  loomed  through  it  like  Druidic 
circles.  He  could  hear  the  patter  of  feet  on  all  sides. 

"  Halt,  in  the  name  of  the  king ! " 

"  Smuggle-erie!  "  And  he  darted  away  in  another 
direction  with  the  whole  guard  pell-mell  at  his  heels. 

A  flash  of  fire  split  the  fog  and  the  report  of  a 
firearm  echoed  dully  in  the  night;  the  Gantock  bell 
clanged  monotonously  on  the  mid-reef;  and  now  the 
cow  of  the  fog-horn  bellowed  and  was  answered  by 
the  calf  of  the  fog-horn.  It  somehow  stirred  another 
memory,  and  he  found  himself  running  toward  the 
Bull  Rock.  But  he  checked  himself. 

"  Not  that  way,"  he  muttered,  and  struck  off  to 
the  north. 

Once  he  heard  the  coast-guards  shouting  excitedly 
to  one  another.  A  pang  of  remorse  seized  his  heart. 
[246] 


Exodus! 

That  would  be  Grogblossom!  He  had  almost  for- 
gotten him.  But  it  was  just  as  well.  He'd  bear 
witness  for  the  old  skipper.  He  wetted  his  finger 
and  held  it  aloft. 

"No  wind!"  he  exclaimed.  "But  they'll  drift 
with  the  tide  and  no  boat'll  find  them  in  this  fog." 

He  saw  a  dim  light  ahead  of  him,  but  failed  to 
recognize  it.  In  order  to  get  his  bearings  straight, 
he  ran  toward  it.  All  at  once  the  fog  broke  before 
him  and  a  dozen  figures  loomed  up  like  giants. 

"  Halt,  in  the  name  of  the  king ! "  came  the  com- 
mand. 

"  Let  the  king  catch  me ! "  was  the  retort. 

"  Fire !  "  cried  a  voice. 

Smuggle-erie  saw  the  world  blaze  red  for  an 
instant  and  felt  a  sharp  pain  in  his  back,  followed 
by  a  strange  dullness  all  over  his  body.  He  tried 
to  run,  but  his  legs  failed  him. 

"Shot!"  he  ejaculated.  "Pity!  The  world- 
was  good."  He  dropped  on  one  knee,  then  fell 
forward  on  his  face. 

They  carried  him  to  the  house  with  the  light. 
It  was  the  coast-guard  station.  They  laid  him  on 
the  settle,  and  all  at  once  old  Jack  Cookson  burst 
into  tears. 

"  I  d-done  my  dooty ! "  he  blubbered.  "  An'  see 
what's  come  upon  me." 

[247] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  It's  all  right,  sir,"  said  one  of  the  men.  "  You 
didn't  fire,  sir." 

"  Who  did  ?  "  snorted  the  coast-guard,  blazing  up 
in  a  sudden  rage. 

Alas !  so  many  shots  had  been  fired  that  none  could 
plead  not  guilty,  nor  acknowledge  guilt,  for  that 
matter. 

"  You  run  for  the  dominie,  ye  swab ! "  said  Cook- 
son  to  one  of  the  men.  "  If  that  man  dies,  there'll 
be  a  better  man  than  you  gone." 

But  Smuggle-erie  was  wounded  to  the  death.  He 
suddenly  opened  his  eyes  and  they  could  see  the  pain 
in  them.  His  face  was  strangely  white  under  the 
surface  tan  of  his  skin.  He  closed  his  jaws  for  a 
moment,  then  relaxed  them  and  spoke  as  clearly  as 
of  yore,  and  in  the  same  spirited  tones. 

"  Bring  the  adm'ral,"  he  said.  "  Hurry !  He's 
no  worse'n  I  am." 

A  few  minutes  later  Ben  Larkin  came  through  the 
open  door  of  the  room,  leaning  heavily  on  the  coast- 
guard as  he  walked.  He  reached  Smuggle-erie's  side 
and  knelt  down.  Smuggle-erie  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Shake  hands,  mate,"  he  said.  The  two  gripped 
hands.  "  Whisper !  "  said  Smuggle-erie,  after  a  bit. 
Larkin  bent  his  head  and  caught  the  words.  "  Be 
good  to  the  lass.  She's  a  damned  sight  too  good 
for  me,  and  you're  not  half  good  enough  for 
her." 

[248] 


Exodus! 

"  I  know  it,  lad,"  Larkin  managed  to  gulp  out, 
"  but  to  have  known  you — to  have  known  you " 

The  pleased  smile  of  a  spoiled  child  crossed 
Smuggle-erie's  face.  He  looked  up  in  Ben  Larkin's 
eyes  and  grinned — the  old  mischievous  grin. 

"  I  beat  ye ! "  he  chuckled,  and  turned  his  face 
to  the  wall. 

When  the  dominie  came  Smuggle-erie  was  dead. 
When  the  dawn  came  the  Thistle  Down,  also,  had 
vanished. 


[249] 


CHAPTER  XXI 


WITH  the  death  of  Smuggle-erie,  it  is  hardly  worth 
writing  further.  A  light  has  gone  out  that  nothing 
can  rekindle  or  imitate.  But  it  is  only  after  the 
death  of  Smuggle-erie  that  the  story  begins,  as  far 
as  public  knowledge  of  it  goes. 

It  is  not  necessary,  to  those  who  know  the  true 
facts  of  the  case,  to  go  into  the  details  of  the  great 
trial  in  Edinburgh  which  ended  in  the  condemnation 
of  Giles  Scrymegeour,  the  Red  Mole,  and  his  son, 
Archibald,  and  the  acquittal  of  Captain  John  Grant. 
But  a  fitting  farewell  to  the  people  of  this  tale  may 
be  taken  in  some  opinions  of  my  lord  advocate  in 
presenting  the  case  to  the  jury. 

"  In  considering  the  testimony  of  the  coast-guard," 
said  his  lordship  with  a  smile,  "  it  would  be  wise  to 
remember  that  most  of  it  is  hearsay,  or  biased  by 
personal  views  and  idiosyncrasies." 

Grogblossom  came  in  for  more  complimentary 
mention  from  the  great  man. 

"  The  evidence  of  the  extremely  unhappy  person 
known  as  Grogblossom,"  said  the  lord  advocate, 
[250] 


"  In  Conclusion,  Gentlemen  " 

"  should  not  be  undervalued.  The  almost  painful 
realism  of  his  narrative  and  the  man's  evident  dis- 
tress in  telling  of  his  experiences  leave  little  room 
for  doubt  as  to  his  truthfulness,  even  in  extreme 
details. 

"  It  is  difficult  for  me  to  advise  you  regarding 
John  Grant,  the  master  of  the  schooner  which  was 
afterward  stolen.  There  seems  to  have  been  no 
attempt  made  by  either  side  to  conceal  the  fact 
that  he  is  the  notorious  Heather  Bloom.  Gentlemen," 
said  the  lord  advocate  pointedly,  "  we  are  not  trying 
a  case  of  smugglery.  I  would  strongly  impress  that 
upon  your  minds.  But  you  must  also  consider  the 
character  and  past  of  the  man  in  order  to  determine 
in  what  degree,  if  any,  he  was  privy  to  this  crime. 
The  defense  has  told  you  of  the  man's  pathetic  repent- 
ance, and  although  it  is  common  to  hear  of  the  con- 
victed sinner  that  repenteth,  in  the  interests  of  justice 
I  would  have  you  remember  that  this  unhappy  man's 
repentance  was  prior  to  the  murder.  If  you  decide 
in  your  minds  that  the  man  Grant  had  no  knowledge 
of  the  murder,  the  fact  that  he  is  a  notorious 
smuggler  must  not  weigh  with  your  judgment.  He 
must  be  acquitted  of  the  charge  of  murder." 

Speaking  of  Giles  Scrymegeour,  it  was  apparent 
from  the  judge's  remarks  that  the  miser's  pitiable 
condition  in  court  had  not  affected  his  lordship  in 
the  least. 

[251] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

"  It  is  because  I  consider  the  honorable  jury  above 
suspicion,  above  malice,  and  above  prejudice,"  said 
he,  "  that  I  make  free  with  my  opinion  of  this  per- 
son. Throughout  the  whole  trial  I  have  heard  say- 
ings and  observed  traits  which  reveal  the  innate  virtue 
in  the  worst  of  those  involved.  Yet  of  this  man  I 
have  heard  nothing,  observed  nothing,  imagined  noth- 
ing which  might  be  called  a  virtue.  I  have  seen  no 
grain  or  strain  of  the  human,  save  that  he  has  a  weak 
heart.  But  what  he  lacks  in  physique  the  two 
creatures  who  were  his  accomplices  lack  in  brains. 
The  one  is  no  less  deserving  of  blame  than  the  others 
are  deserving  of  pity." 

Later  my  lord  advocate  lowered  his  tone  to  a  softer 
strain. 

"  In  the  matter  of  the  woman,"  said  he,  "  I  must 
warn  you  against  the  natural  sentiment  which  the 
narrative  of  Grizel  Grant  must  have  stirred  in  your 
hearts,  but  you  should  consider  with  cool  judg- 
ment that  if  any  special  motive  inspired  her  on 
behalf  of  the  smugglers,  there  were  other  facts 
which  would  have  as  readily  discouraged  her 
from  the  admirable  stand  which  she  had  taken. 
I  do  not  think,  gentlemen,  that  I  need  be  more 
explicit." 

On  going  into  the  details  of  Ben  Larkin's  track- 
ing of  the  barrels  to  the  Cothouse  Inn,  and  the  evi- 
dence which  was  adduced  that  the  unfortunate  Hor- 
[252] 


He  raised  his  eyes  to  hers  and  held  out  his  hand 


"  In  Conclusion,  Gentlemen  " 

neycraft  had  last  been  seen  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
inn,  the  lord  advocate  said : 

"  The  path  of  the  honorable  lieutenant  has  cer- 
tainly been  strewn  with  thorns.  It  is  a  matter  for 
congratulation  that  he  has  come  before  us  with  evi- 
dence of  his  duty  well  discharged,  his  honor  untainted, 
and  his  health  practically  unimpaired." 

Smuggle-erie  lay  in  the  kirkyard  at  Morag,  but 
so  persistently  had  the  ghost  of  the  man  haunted 
the  great  trial-room  that  the  lord  advocate  could  not 
but  mention  him  in  passing. 

"  It  is  a  great  pity,"  said  he,  "  that  neither  side 
has  been  able  to  bring  forward  as  a  witness  the  man 
known  as  Smuggle-erie.  The  person  who  put  about 
ship  and  sailed  back  into  Morag  with  such  damning 
evidence  aboard — and  that  when  there  was  a  simpler 
course — was  a  man  of  great  moral  courage,  despite 
the  fact  that,  in  most  matters,  he  lacked  morality. 
His  statement  made  in  the  jail  at  Morag  and  under 
oath  should  be  accepted  by  you  as  if  he  were  alive 
and  in  the  witness-box  before  you." 

This  charge  to  the  jury  created  something  of  a 
sensation  in  court.  The  lord  advocate  must  have 
seen  it  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  for  he  added  with 
a  surprising  amount  of  spirit  for  one  so  staid  and 
solemn : 

"  Personally,  I  should  believe  the  word  of  one  dead 
Smuggle-erie  against  the  bonds  of  a  dozen  Scryme- 
[253] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

geours.  If  it  should  happen,  gentlemen,  that  your 
judgment  should  coincide  with  my  private  opinion 
of  the  merits  of  the  case,  I  think  the  credit  would 
be  due,  neither  to  counsel,  court,  nor  jury,  but,  first, 
to  the  incontrovertible  Truth,  and  second  to  the  all- 
pervading  and  posthumous  genius  of  this  human 
anomaly,  Smuggle-erie ! " 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  laird  was  the  only  one 
left  out.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  when  it  was  discovered 
that  he  had  fled  to  Canada  his  connection  with  the 
case  was  only  worthy  of  mention.  Morag  Castle 
is  an  untenanted  ruin  to  this  day,  Richard  Halliday 
never  having  returned  to  claim  what  was  never  really 
his  own.  Like  the  Thistle  Down  and  those  who  stole 
the  schooner,  he  dropped  out  of  human  ken  at  the 
moment  of  disappearing,  never  to  be  heard  of  again. 

Giles  Scrymegeour  never  came  to  the  gibbet. 
Strictly  speaking,  he  came  to  the  foot  of  it,  and 
when  they  picked  him  up  he  was  dead  of  heart-failure. 
The  Red  Mole's  sentence  was  commuted  to  penal 
servitude,  in  view  of  his  confession.  As  for  Archi- 
bald, it  is  still  told  of  him  that  when  he  stood  by 
the  gallows  and  was  asked  if  he  had  anything  to 
say,  he  turned  with  a  smile  and  actually  said: 

"  No." 

The  charge  of  smugglery  was  never  brought 
against  Captain  Grant,  for  reasons  that  were  more 
of  sentiment  than  of  law.  On  the  last  point,  how- 


ff  In  Conclusion,  Gentlemen  " 

ever,  the  case  was  weak.  With  Grizel,  he  retired  to 
the  cottage  with  the  flagstaff,  went  to  kirk  twice 
every  Sunday,  and  spent  his  evenings  beside  the  little 
harmonium  in  the  parlor,  or  chatting  with  the  old 
dominie  and  the  heroic  coast-guard. 

After  the  disorganization  of  the  smugglers,  Lieu- 
tenant Ben  Larkin  accepted  service  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean. The  last  days  in  Morag  had  convinced  him 
that  Grizel's  love  was  all  buried  with  Smuggle-erie. 
During  the  trial  he  had  seen  her  constantly  and  with 
greater  regret  for  his  own  love.  They  had  never 
spoken,  and  when  their  eyes  met  over  the  heads  in 
court,  as  they  sometimes  did,  she  quickly  averted  hers. 
And  in  time  the  wide  seas  separated  them. 

It  was  something  like  an  accident  that  brought 
them  together  again,  two  years  later,  although  the 
word  accident  should  be  used  advisedly  in  the  matter 
of  love.  Upon  his  return  from  the  Mediterranean, 
Ben  Larkin  went  to  Morag  to  pay  his  respects  to 
the  dominie  and  the  old  coast-guard,  and  also  the 
scenes  which  had  taken  on  the  glamour  of  romance 
from  time  and  distance.  And  it  was  from  Jack 
Cookson  that  Ben  got  the  first  report  on  how  the 
wind  blew. 

Later  the  lieutenant  strolled  into  Morag.  Spring 
was  on  the  land,  and  something  like  it  was  reawaken- 
ing in  Ben's  heart.  The  hedges  were  brushed  with 
[255] 


The  Vanishing  Smuggler 

early  green,  and  the  first  primroses  were  nestling 
in  the  mossy  eaves  of  the  rocks.  He  walked  into 
the  kirkyard,  for  there  was  something  which  should 
be  there,  if  Jack  Cookson  had  obeyed  Ben  Larkin's 
last  command  before  he  left  Morag  for  Edinburgh. 
There  it  was,  a  rude  slab  with  rude  lettering  upon 
it.  Beside  it  was  a  girl  with  a  trowel  in  her  hand, 
planting  primroses.  He  knew  who  it  was  at  once, 
and  the  time  and  the  place  sent  his  heart  surging 
into  his  throat.  She  looked  up  as  he  approached, 
and  he  noticed  with  wonder  a  sudden  springing  of 
tears  to  her  eyes.  Hardly  knowing  what  he  was 
doing,  he  stopped  and  looked  at  the  stone.  It  was 
just  as  he  had  wished  it  to  be,  rough  and  real,  terse 
and  true: 

Here  Lies 
SMUGGLE-ERIE 

A  Good  Friend 

A  Splendid  Enemy 

1829 

Then  he  raised  his  eyes  to  hers  and  held  out  his 
hand. 


THE  END 


[256] 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000039905     5 


